


Breaking Nicolò

by Fuinixe



Series: Febuwhump 2021 [20]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, And now that that's out of the way..., Author Is Not Religious, Author is not a fan of the Catholic Church, Bathing/Washing, Betrayal, Branding, Child abuse not perpetrated by or against any of the main characters, Coercion, Collars, Dark!Yusuf, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Face-Fucking, Forced Orgasm, Frottage, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Intercrural Sex, Kneeling, M/M, Mental Coercion, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Priest Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Prompt Fill, Sexual Assault, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Slavery, Some Disassociation/Derealization, Torture, Whipping, Whump, kinkmeme fill, xena levels of historical accuracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29615124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuinixe/pseuds/Fuinixe
Summary: To spice up my next couple Febuwhump fills, I went trolling for ideas in the kinkmeme and found this:"Lord Yusuf could have anyone he wants, but what he wants is the sweet, chaste priest who spends his days praying on his knees and abstaining from the good things in life."Lord Yusuf purchases him from the Church and makes it his new hobby to defile and corrupt the most pious man he's ever seen in every way possible."Any kinks, any level of consent. No ABO."
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Febuwhump 2021 [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2143242
Comments: 296
Kudos: 233
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	1. Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a nice story. You have been warned. I was in the mood for writing Dark!Joe or Dark!Nicky, so. 
> 
> Chapter titles will be that day's Febuwhump prompt.

It was a beautiful spring day. Father Matteo had asked Nicolò to accompany him to distribute alms to the poor and the widows today, a great honor, and Nicolò had accepted with happiness. It had been five years since he’d last gone much more than a few hundred yards past the abbey’s walls, and he thrilled to see the countryside open up before them through the carriage’s window. The breeze on his face was cool and sweet-smelling. 

He glanced back at Father Matteo to share a smile with him, and his elder returned his smile, albeit muted. That was fine. Father Matteo was a man of great emotion and great responsibilities, and both weighed heavily on his shoulders. Nicolò was so grateful to the man for taking him in, nearly fifteen years ago, and giving him a place to belong when his family could no longer afford to feed so many mouths.

Nicolò sat back on the bench and mulled over what he might be able to say to lift the man’s spirits.

“Thank you for bringing me with you on this mission today, Father.”

He received a small glance and a pat on the knee. “You are so obedient, Nicolò. There was no other option.”

“Oh, thank you greatly, Father. I only wish to serve God. It is His wish that we treat the poor as we would treat Christ himself.”

“That’s right, my boy. That’s right.” The man seemed especially distracted today. 

Several minutes later, the carriage began to slow, and Nicolò leaned over to look out the window again. “Did you tell Antonio to make a stop before the village, Father? We’re at Lord Yusuf’s manor.”

“Ah, yes. Lord Yusuf wishes to make a large donation to the church.”

“Oh, that’s splendid news!” Nicolò climbed out of the carriage and offered his arm for the elderly father to lean on as he stepped out. “Shall I come in with you or stay out here with Antonio?”

“You’d better come in, Nicolò.”

“Of course. As you wish, Father.”

A footman greeted the pair of them and led them to the Lord’s reception room, where they only had to wait a few short moments before Lord Yusuf swept in with several attendants and took a seat on his throne. The man, though his clothes were simple for a man of his station, was dressed much more richly than the pair of church fellows, and with a simple circlet resting on top of his curls.

Nicolò and Father Matteo both inclined their heads, but did not bow fully, for it would have been improper for servants of God above to prostrate themselves before a secular leader.

The first words out of the Lord’s mouth filled Nicolò with confusion.

“You have done well bringing him here, Father, and on such short notice. I will increase my donation by twenty per cent.”

Bringing who here? Nicolò glanced around the room. Perhaps Antonio was exchanging their good horse for a worse one with the hostler outside.

“You are too generous, Your Grace,” spoke Father Matteo.

“Not at all. Your work benefits me as well, Father. I also wish to see the orphans of this country fed and cared for.”

“We will see the orphanage is named after you, Your Grace.”

“Oh, nonsense! That’s not necessary. Pick a saint of your faith, I insist. Good day to you, Father.”

“And to you, Your Grace.”

Well, that was a brief audience, but Nicolò was not complaining. He inclined his head again to the Lord and turned to follow Father Matteo out. 

The Father turned to him, his face stiff, mouth downturned. “Nicolò, you must stay.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re staying here, Nicolò. At the manor.” The wrinkles in his face deepened unhappily.

“I don’t understand, I’m sorry.” In the corners of his vision, he noticed a few of the Lord’s better-armed attendants circling the pair of them, and he tensed.

“Lord Yusuf has been very generous with the church, and has donated a sum that will feed the needy of our parish for many winters, as well as construct an orphanage, which you know is much-needed. You must stay here, Nicolò.”

“I don’t wish to stay!” Nicolò objected. His voice sounded higher in his ears than he was used to. Younger. “My home is with you, with my brothers at the abbey!”

Father Matteo shook his head sadly. “Nicolò, please. I just told you how obedient you were. Please don’t conduct yourself like this. Be a man.”

“Father--no--why--” Nicolò whirled around, searching for any friendly expressions in the room, but all their faces looked bored, except for the Lord’s, who looked intensely predatory. He turned back to Father Matteo. “Please don’t leave me here,” he whispered. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You won’t be alone,” the Father answered, a hint of gentleness creeping into his voice. “Lord Yusuf has impressed upon me how well you’ll be cared for. Now stay, Nico, please. Don’t make a fuss.”

The weight of what was happening crashed down on Nicolò. He was being left, abandoned, by the person he trusted most in this world. His life at the abbey was over. He may never see its walls again. He may never pet Brother Francesco’s rabbits, or eat Brother Carlo’s bread. 

His shoulders drooped under the crushing weight of the realization, and he hung his head, staring at the rush-covered floor. “Yes, Father.”

Father Matteo stepped forward, and Nicolò tensed, expecting a hug that he didn’t think he could handle right now. Instead, the Father just patted his shoulder twice and turned away. “Goodbye, Nicolò.”

“Goodbye, Father,” Nicolò choked out. And with that, Father Matteo; the man who had helped raise Nicolò from the age of ten; the man who had taught him Latin, maths, and the virtues of piety, chastity, and humility; departed, leaving Nicolò behind.

Nicolò had no living impulses inside him, at that moment. He wished only that he could, as he had not done since the days long ago when his uncle whipped him, drop to the floor and curl up in a tight ball.

Instead, he turned, feet leaden, to size up the new master of his existence. The man who had orchestrated all of this. 

Lord Yusuf was regarding him intently, chin in hand, elbow resting on the arm of his throne. They stared at each other for a moment, the Lord’s eyes raking down and then back up over Nicolò’s body, taking in his habit and muddy shoes. Nicolò didn’t have the faintest idea what interest this man had in him. What was he to a lord?

“Come closer,” the man commanded. Nicolò merely furrowed his brow. Why? What point was there in obeying this man’s orders? This man who had just torn his life asunder?

Lord Yusuf’s jaw tightened and he flicked a hand at the two attendants near Nicolò, who promptly crowded in and grabbed his arms, dragging him forward until he was only about eight feet from the dais.

“Paolo, Martino, Kabir, stay. The rest of you may go.” Five of the attendants bowed and departed, leaving only one stationed halfway between the throne and the door the entourage had entered through, as well as the two currently flanking Nicolò.

Lord Yusuf studied him thoughtfully for a moment, then stood. “Perhaps we should start over,” he announced, and stepped down off the dais, closing the distance between them by half. Closer, Nicolò could see that the man’s thick beard was trimmed closely, his eyelashes thick and dark. The embroidery on his robe was very fine. “I am Lord Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad al-Kaysani, liege of these lands. It is good of you to have come.”

As if he had any say in it? “Brother Nicolò,” Nicolò responded, then added, “Your Grace.” It felt too uncomfortable to leave off the title, going against all the manners Nicolò had ever learned.

Lord Yusuf tilted his head to the side and wiggled his hand in the air. “Not ‘Brother’ any longer.”

Nicolò dropped his gaze down and to the side. He couldn’t bear to look into this awful man’s eyes any longer. “Just Nicolò, then,” he responded, dully. He’d been so proud to earn the title of Brother.

“You are not ‘just’ anything to me, Nicolò,” the Lord said, startling him. He glanced up in confusion. “Do you not remember me? I toured the grounds of the abbey, last autumn. Your church welcomed me as a guest at your harvest feast day.”

Nicolò shrugged. That had been a _very_ busy day, with lots of visitors.

“Well, _I_ noticed _you._ You’re an incredibly beautiful man, Nicolò.”

Nicolò felt truly taken aback at that. Beautiful? Him? 

“So shocked?” Yusuf asked, then muttered as if to himself, “You don’t know it. No matter.”

“Vanity is a sin, your lordship.” 

Instead of nodding and perhaps offering a Bible verse that agreed with such a sentiment, as any of his church brethren would have done, Lord Yusuf merely smirked. “Perhaps, and yet I can’t bring myself to care.”

Nicolò frowned and said nothing. Of course this man was not pious, and Nicolò had no reason to expect him to be. Except... except for the matter with the donation.

“Why did you give such a generous gift to the Church, Your Grace?” he asked

“It is all to be spent on the needy, a cause I do not oppose, shall we say. But to be perfectly honest, I wanted you, Nicolò.” Lord Yusuf stepped forward then, right up to Nicolò, and lifted a hand to hold Nicolò’s chin, forcing his eyes up. “Please look at me when I’m speaking to you. That’s right. Your eyes are too lovely to cast aside.”

Nicolò had no idea how to respond to that. He would have pulled away but for the guards that still held him in place.

“What was I saying? Oh, yes. I wanted you. And not just for a night or two. I went home and gave myself a fortnight to think about it, as I do with any large purchase. I can tell the difference between a temporary plaything and something I absolutely _must_ acquire, permanently. And the more I thought about it, the more I knew you were the latter.”

 _A night or two? Plaything?_ Nicolò twisted his mouth in distaste. “Your Grace, I’m afraid I don’t understand.” But he did, finally, all too well. “I am not--I am not a whore. I am a man of the Church.”

Lord Yusuf shifted his hand where it had held his chin to instead grip his jaw, fingers and thumb on either side, and gave him an insulting little shake that had Nicolò thinking of biting his fingers off. “Nicolò, don’t be stupid. This is what I’m trying to impress upon you. As of today, you are no such thing. You are no longer a man of the Church. You are simply _mine,_ and nothing else.”

Nicolò tried to shake his head no, but Lord Yusuf had his face in a vice grip, now. “Yes, Nicolò. There is no use at all in defying me.” He dropped his hand and returned to his throne, sitting and crossing his legs. “We will start with something simple. Earlier, when you and Father Matteo greeted me, you merely dipped your chins to me. An ordinary custom, for priests and nuns. You will now greet me properly, as befits your new station.”

Anger boiled up in Nicolò at this man’s cruelty. He had just taken everything Nicolò had ever known, his home, even his trust in his Church family, and now he wanted his dignity, too? Nicolò glared back at him, silently.

“Will I have to break you, then? What a pity. Your elder spoke highly of your obedience. I suppose you’d say that was obedience to God? And I am just a man?”

Nicolò tilted his head to the side in acknowledgment.

“We’ll see how long that perspective holds up. Kabir,” he said, addressing the man that stood off to the side. “The switch, until he bows properly. Paolo, Martino, lift his habit.”

Nicolò was no stranger to corporal punishment at the abbey. Father Matteo believed every boy needed a good switching now and again, to distract him from the unique temptations of adolescence. It had been some time since he’d been in such a position, however. One of the guards tugged off the cord that cinched his habit and the other fisted the back hem and lifted it up, baring Nicolò’s back to the swirling air of the reception hall. The sun had barely begun its intrusion through the windows on one wall and the room was uncomfortably cool partly-clothed. 

Nicolò shivered and braced himself for pain.

The first lash of the switch crossed his back diagonally, a bright, sharp line of pain from shoulder blade to kidney. Nicolò inhaled sharply through his teeth. Pain in the moment was always altogether different from the echoes in one’s memory. He glanced up at Lord Yusuf after the second, slicing blow came down, expecting him to look smug.

He didn’t. He looked...genuinely regretful, which Nicolò found quite strange for a man watching his own orders being carried out. This nobleman clearly had an eccentricity to him.

As the blows rained down, Nicolò grit his teeth and gasped and writhed in the guards’ grasp, but always, his gaze returned to Lord Yusuf’s face, searching for a hint of glee or sadism and finding none. 

His back was on fire, skin broken and bleeding, blood trickling down his sides and seeping into the waist of his smallclothes. And what for, exactly? 

Pride?

Wasn’t pride a sin?

“Mercy,” he gasped out, and Lord Yusuf threw up a hand.

“Hold,” he commanded, and the blows immediately stopped. Nicolò felt a surge of gratitude followed by a wave of resentment at the absurdity of such a thing.

“Are you ready to bow, Nicolò?” Yusuf asked, a hard, brittle edge to his voice.

Nicolò nodded and hung his head. The guards released his arms and backed away. Nicolò hissed out a breath at the sensation of his habit falling back against his wounds and immediately sticking to his skin, tacky with blood. He swayed on his feet and let himself fall forward, on to his knees. 

“Your Grace,” he gritted out, teeth clenched and grinding, trying to hold in the whimpers of pain that threatened to escape his throat. He leaned forward and braced his palms against the rushes covering the floor, then slowly, in agony as his habit dragged against the ragged skin of his back, tipped forward and rested his forehead on the ground, breathing in the aroma of sweet-smelling rushes.

He heard footsteps descending the dais and the crush of rushes near his ears and then, to his surprise, Lord Yusuf’s voice was very near his head, speaking in a low, almost kindly tone. “You did very well, Nicolò. Up you go, now.” Nicolò was hauled back to his feet by the guards. “Take him to the guest chambers closest to my own. I’ll be with you in a moment, Nicolò.” 

Nicolò stumbled along, trying to move his feet in time with the guards who led him up two staircases and down a wide and grand hallway, with doors on either side. The final door on the left opened up to a large room, at least ten times larger than his cubicle at the abbey, with an enormous bed and wardrobe on one side and a small sitting area on the other, as well as a vanity with a genuine silver-framed mirror, a low stool, and a chamberpot. 

The guards set him on the stool and waited to see if he would tip over. When he did not, one left while the other stayed, standing near the door. As if Nicolò was in any shape to escape, right now.

And where would he even go?

To the abbey? They would promptly send him right back. 

Where else? There was nowhere else that wanted him.

Nicolò’s heart felt incredibly heavy. He closed his eyes and tried to pray.

_Our Father, who art in heaven…_

But all he could see in his mind’s eye was Father Matteo’s lined face, chiding, “Don’t make a fuss.”

Several minutes of staring at the floor passed, and then the guard opened the door to the hallway. Through it stepped Lord Yusuf, followed by a serving maiden, carrying a large tray laden with food and a tea set. She carefully deposited it on the low table in the sitting area and bobbed a curtsy. “Shall I wait on you, Your Grace?”

“No Suhana, that will be all.” She exited. Lord Yusuf eyed Nicolò, who looked away. “I am here to care for your back, Nicolò.” Nicolò startled at that, bewildered. “Am I in any danger from you or may I send Paolo out as well?”

Nicolò shook his head. He didn’t have the energy nor the training to fight. 

“No, I’m not in any danger from you or no, I should not send Paolo out? Use your words, Nicolò.”

“No danger, Your Grace,” he whispered to the floor.

The door to the hallway shut, and Nicolò sensed that they were alone. Fear spiked through him. He didn’t want to be alone with this man. He clenched his fingers around the edges of the stool he sat upon.

Lord Yusuf stepped closer, and Nicolò looked up at him, eyes wide. The man held his hands out in a gesture of peace. 

“I meant what I said,” he spoke, soothingly. “I am here to care for your back, nothing more. Turn around for me.”

Seeing little choice, Nicolò turned his back to his captor. Footsteps approached closer. “I’m going to remove this habit. It will hurt quite a bit. Do you need something to bite down on?” Nicolò shook his head. “Very well. Put your arms up, please.” Nicolò raised his arms above his head, upper back burning. With one smooth motion that set Nicolò’s back afire anew, the Lord removed his habit and pulled it over Nicolò’s head and arms. He dropped it in a heap and kicked it aside. 

Such treatment of holy garments would have been grounds for punishment, had he been back in the abbey--and had Lord Yusuf been Brother Yusuf. Nicolò blinked at the ridiculous thought.

“Am I to wash that, Your Grace?” he asked, needing to break the uncomfortable silence as Yusuf--what? Stared at his back?

“What? Oh, no. It’s rags, now.”

Nicolò bit back an objection. He’d earned those garments, much as he’d earned the title of Brother. Of course Lord Yusuf had no use and no respect for either. He heard a jar opened behind him.

“I’m going to spread this on your back, Nicolò. It will feel good.” Nicolò nodded, jerkily, and then felt a blessed coolness at the top of his spine, wiping his pain away. He couldn’t help the little sigh of relief that escaped him. “See? That’s so good. This is better, isn’t it?”

Lord Yusuf’s voice was lower now, warmer, and it sent a shiver down Nicolò’s neck. The Lord’s hands were shockingly gentle as he carefully dabbed cool ointment on Nicolò’s wounds.

“I have no interest in hurting you, Nicolò,” the man husked. “Of course I can’t tolerate disobedience of any sort. But your pain brings me no pleasure. It’s important that you know that.”

Nicolò wasn’t sure what to think of that. It certainly accorded with the grimness he’d seen on the man’s face whilst Nicolò was being lashed.

Nicolò saw a hand reach past him to set the jar on the vanity, and then felt it caress the hair on the top of Nicolò’s head. The gesture was uncomfortably intimate, but nobody had played with Nicolò’s hair in...well, he couldn’t remember when. He held himself stiff and tried not to lean into the touch. Lord Yusuf’s other hand continued dabbing at the ointment, making sure every lash mark was covered. “I ordinarily wish you to speak up when I address you, Nicolò,” the man said, placidly.

Nicolò opened his mouth to respond, and then realized he didn’t know what he was supposed to say. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he answered, with a little frisson of fear. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear the last thing you said to me. Please forgive me.”

The hand in his hair scratched his scalp gently, and this time Nicolò couldn’t resist leaning into it a bit. Something about not being able to see the Lord made it easier to give in to him.

“I asked if you believe me, when I tell you I do not enjoy your pain.”

“I...I don’t know, Your Grace,” Nicolò answered, honestly. “My whole...everything has changed. I don’t know what to believe.” The man behind him hummed consideringly. “I thought...I trusted Father Matteo, and…” Nicolò’s voice cracked. “I thought I’d spend the rest of my life in the Church. I thought I would die and be buried there.”

Both of Lord Yusuf’s hands left his body, and Nicolò felt immediately bereft. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and shivered. The Lord pulled a plush chair over from the sitting area and positioned it in front of Nicolò, then sat down in it and regarded Nicolò silently. He felt suddenly very self-conscious of his naked torso. What was the word Lord Yusuf had used? Plaything. Nicolò shivered again.

“Are you cold, Nicolò?” Nicolò nodded. “Paolo!” The man immediately poked his head through the door. “Build a fire in the grate here, please.”

“Immediately, sire,” the man responded, and then left to fetch supplies.

“Nicolò.” The man leaned forward and took both of Nicolò’s hands in his. Nicolò stared down at his hands held between the Lord’s, at the contrast of their skin tones, at the incredibly elegant taper of the nobleman’s fingers against Nicolò’s broad and sturdy palms. “You must remember what I am about to say, for it is both true and important. You are much too good for the Church.”

Nicolò whipped his head up and stared at the man.

“When I saw you at the harvest feast, when I beheld your poise and beauty, I thought to myself, _This man does not belong here. This man is not made for chanting hymns and churning butter all the days of his life._ I thought, _I must show him all life has to offer. I must see pleasure, nay, rapture, nay,_ ecstasy _cross that face. It is too good to squint at verse and mutter Hail Marys and never experience true poetry._ ”

Nicolò swallowed. He didn’t understand and couldn’t possibly agree. He thought, _That was what I chose, though,_ and then paused to chew on that thought. Had he? No. His uncle had just...dropped him off one day, and that set the rest of Nicolò’s life in motion.

And yet. This man had no right.

Except...he did. These lands were his and he could do precisely as he wished on them, as long as he kept the king happy and the Pope appeased.

Nicolò realized Lord Yusuf probably wanted him to say something again. “Th-thank you, Your Grace. I think.”

Lord Yusuf smirked, still in good humor, and Nicolò realized uncomfortably that it was an attractive expression on him, warm and human. His eyes crinkled at the corners.

Nicolò ducked his head and swallowed, suddenly remembering what this man expected of him. His throat felt tight and he cleared it, coughing into his shoulder. The motion pulled at the wounds on his back and he winced.

Lord Yusuf was still holding his hands. He started rubbing soothing circles into Nicolò’s wrists and the backs of his palms with his thumbs. Nicolò struggled not to fall into a daze at the feeling of warmth flowing up his forearms. “My Lord,” he started, hesitantly.

“Yes, Nicolò?”

“I...I should tell you that I. I meant what I said, that I. Well.” Nicolò licked his lips and tried again. “I have no skills. I may not please you. I’ve never lain with anyone.”

“Never?” the man purred. Nicolò had a jolt of insight that perhaps divulging this piece of information had been a mistake. He bit his tongue and shook his head, jerkily. 

“Oh, my sweet, innocent Nicolò. I had hoped, but I had not dared to expect. Do not worry. You have nothing to prove to me. I will teach you everything you need to know, pet. I will take… _immense_ pleasure in deflowering you, bit by bit. You’ve kneeled for me, and I will have the rest.” 

Yusuf wrapped his fingers around Nicolò’s bony wrists and squeezed, uncomfortably tight. Nicolò leaned back, fearfully, curling into himself. “Every last piece of you that you imagined keeping for yourself, keeping sacred for your God. You will give it to me, or I will take it from you. And you will like it, Nicolò. Oh, I promise you that.”

“Your--your Grace,” Nicolò stammered. “You’re scaring me,” he whispered, for it was true.

Yusuf dropped his wrists, abruptly, and stood. There was a knock at the door. Lord Yusuf adjusted his crotch beneath his robes and then crossed over to the door, opening it so that Paolo could enter with the hearth-keeping supplies. Nicolò turned on the stool to watch, unwilling to put his back to this man for any further length of time.

“You’re a temptation, Nicolò, but you are injured, and I will not add to your pain. I will stay away while you recuperate. Suhana and Paolo will see to your needs.” And with that pronouncement, he swept out into the hallway, shutting the door firmly behind him.

For lack of anything better to do, Nicolò watched Paolo efficiently build a fire in the grate. The bedroom began warming immediately.

Paolo gathered up his things and left without a word or a glance to Nicolò, and then he was alone.


	2. Torture

Suhana returned in the evening to bring supper and reapply the cream to Nicolò’s back, her touch light and efficient. “May I have something to read?” Nicolò asked, before she left. His day had been very boring. She nodded and returned with a Bible for him, which he accepted gratefully.

The next morning, Suhana arrived with breakfast, and a stack of clothes. Nicolò examined them curiously. The tunics were very unusually cut, with a large empty space where the back should have been. He donned one after Suhana reapplied the cream. The tunic had a strip of fabric that kept it from falling off his neck, and ordinary sleeves. It felt strange, but he was relieved to not have fabric rubbing against his wounds.

“Am I allowed to leave this room?” he asked Suhana before she left.

“His Lordship says you may roam the grounds if you wish, as long as you are escorted.” 

That afternoon, he went for a walkabout, Suhana and Paolo trailing behind him. They spoke with each other, but very little with him, and after a few attempts, he gave up trying to interject himself into their conversation. He wondered unhappily if Lord Yusuf had given them orders to ignore him as much as possible.

The next few days proceeded in the same way. Nicolò fell asleep on his stomach every night, blanket pulled up to his waist and no further. Suhana applied cream to Nicolò’s lash wounds every morning and evening. Food was brought to his room and dishes were brought away. Nicolò read his Bible and stared out his window and went for walks on the grounds in the afternoon.

It was not too terrible. Lonely, but quiet. Nicolò wished he had something to do with his hands, for he was unused to being so idle. The third day, he asked Suhana if he might help with the mending, and after she examined his stitches, she brought him more to do.

On the fifth day, having returned from his daily walk, there was a knock at the door shortly thereafter. Paolo poked his head in. “His Lordship is coming for a visit. Make yourself ready.” Before Nicolò could react, the door was shut again.

 _Make myself ready? What does that mean?_ Nicolò’s heart started pounding. He set the mending aside on the loveseat and stood up, then turned on the spot, aimlessly. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Ready for what? He walked to the vanity and eyed himself in the mirror. He looked pale and drawn.

The door opened without warning and Nicolò whirled around. Lord Yusuf entered and shut the door behind him. His robes were a rich purple today, glimmering with silver embroidery. Nicolò quailed at his stern facial expression.

Lord Yusuf stepped forward, and then paused. “You don’t need to fear me, Nicolò. I’m not in a wonderful mood, but it has nothing to do with you.”

Nicolò stayed silent.

“Well, I suppose that’s not entirely true,” the Lord went on. “I am frustrated. I’m not sleeping well. Every night I think of you, just down the hallway from me.” He stepped forward again, and then closer, until he was crowding into Nicolò’s space, their faces scarce inches away. Lord Yusuf was staring at Nicolò’s mouth. “It is as I said, Nicolò. You are a temptation. But I don’t wish to hurt you.” 

Nicolò swallowed. Lord Yusuf’s hand came up to cup his face, and his thumb landed on Nicolò’s bottom lip, tapping it. “I suppose there are some things we can do that won’t aggravate your back, though, aren’t there?”

Nicolò bit his tongue. He did not wish to acquiesce to this man, no matter how soft his hands were or how velvety his voice. He had pledged his body to God, and he wasn’t going to break those vows unless forced to.

“Speak, Nicolò,” the Lord murmured into the space between them.

“I--I don’t know, Your Grace. Nothing I could say will please you.”

Lord Yusuf narrowed his eyes. “Oh? And why is that?”

“I have made a vow of chastity. Before God. Your Grace,” Nicolò answered, trying to sound firm.

Lord Yusuf frowned and said nothing. His thumb continued stroking Nicolò’s bottom lip, causing him to shiver.

“Very well,” Lord Yusuf said. “I believe I have a compromise that may suit both of us. Your vow is in regards to the genitals, is that right?”

“I--I don’t understand.”

“If you do not stimulate anything below my waist, and I do not stimulate anything below yours, is your vow broken?”

“I… I suppose not, Your Grace,” Nicolò answered, mind whirring.

Lord Yusuf stepped away abruptly, leaving Nicolò’s front cool and his bottom lip tingling. He opened the door to the hallway and asked for something, but Nicolò could not make out quite what, and then shut the door again.

“Move the table away from the loveseat, please.” Nicolò did, nerves rising in him. Lord Yusuf picked up the mending and inspected it. “Suhana has you working for your meals?” he asked, a hint of a smile in his voice.

“Ah, no, Your Grace. I asked for something to do.” The Lord set the mending on the table and regarded Nicolò.

“You were bored.”

“Yes, Sire.” 

“Hmm. Maybe we can find you more activities. Enrichment. Come in,” he said, to the knock at the door. Paolo set a pail on the ground, the contents of which sounded dense. 

“Will that be all, Your Lordship?”

Lord Yusuf nodded and Paolo left again.

Then Lord Yusuf lifted the pail and spilled some of the contents onto the floor in front of one side of the loveseat, and Nicolò realized it was uncooked grains of rice.

The Lord placed a cushion on the floor next to the rice, then sat in the center of the loveseat and regarded Nicolò.

“Here is my compromise. You may choose where to kneel. To my left,” he gestured at the grains of rice on the floor, “or to my right.” He indicated the cushion. “I understand kneeling on rice to be a common form of penance at the abbey?”

Nicolò nodded. It was his least favorite punishment. 

“If you do not kneel on the cushion, Nicolò, you will be disobeying me, and as I’ve explained to you, I cannot allow such things without some form of recompense. But I know how hard this is for you, so I want you to have the choice.”

“And if I kneel on the cushion, Your Grace?” Nicolò asked, though he had an inkling of an idea.

“Then I will be very pleased with you, Nicolò, and I will begin to teach you how to suck my cock.”

Nicolò nodded. The choice was simple. He bent and rolled his hose to above his knees, and then slowly, bracing his hand against the loveseat so as not to land too heavily, kneeled on top of the rice grains, then let out a slow, shaky breath. It didn’t hurt too badly, at first. Nicolò knew that would change.

Out of habit, he folded his hands together before him as if to pray. The Lord’s knee was very close to Nicolò’s face, and he could see the fine silver thread woven into his robes. 

Almost all his body weight was spread over little pinpricks of pain, and the prickle in his knees and shins was starting to worsen. Nicolò winced. His pain tolerance was much lower than it used to be. He looked up, chancing a glance at Lord Yusuf’s face.

His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, his lips shining in the gleam of the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows. His gaze on Nicolò felt heavy, like a physical weight. 

“You look very good on your knees before me, Nicolò,” the Lord said. “You have a lovely profile. I look forward to painting you.”

“You paint, Sire?” Nicolò asked, trying to get his mind off the terrible sensation in his legs.

“I do. I dabble in calligraphy and tilework, as well. Perhaps you’d like to see sometime?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Nicolò panted. The rice grains had started to feel like little knives stabbing into his knees and shins. He wished he could shift his weight, but he knew from extensive experience that would only make the pain worse.

“You know, Nicolò, part of me admires your commitment,” Lord Yusuf said, softly. Nicolò looked up at him again. His face looked genuine, open. His eyes were roaming over Nicolò’s face, as if searching for something. “I wish there were a way to make this easier for you. Perhaps…?” He trailed off.

“What?” Nicolò asked. 

“Perhaps I could touch you? Distract you from the feeling in your legs? Give you something to focus on?”

Nicolò pressed his lips together. “Touch me where, Your Grace?”

“Oh, just your mouth. Nowhere improper.”

Nicolò must have looked suspicious, for the Lord added, “With my hand, Nicolò. Just as I was before we sat down.”

Nicolò shifted, automatically, trying to relieve the pain in his legs, and a new constellation of agony burst into his awareness from the hundreds of tiny, hard points on the floor. “Yes. Distract me. Please, Sire,” he begged.

Lord Yusuf leaned forward and pressed his first two fingers to Nicolò’s bottom lip, pushing down gently so that his teeth and gums were exposed. Nicolò inhaled sharply at the gentleness of the touch, such a contrast to the agony in his legs, and the Lord moved his hand to rub his fingertips against Nicolò’s bottom teeth--then further, caressing and stroking Nicolò’s tongue.

The Lord groaned openly, loudly, and his other hand came down into his lap to cup his cock through his clothing.

“Oh, Nicolò--your _mouth_. So wet. _So_ soft.” Nicolò’s cheeks and ears were burning, but he didn’t feel like he could object. He had never heard a sermon against putting another man’s hand in one’s mouth, though perhaps, if God had foreseen a man like Yusuf al-Kaysani, he would have instructed his messengers to include such a warning in the Bible.

Nicolò winced at the sacrilegious thought and returned to his physical sensations, which were, unfortunately, the pain of the rice and the strange feeling of a man’s fingers invading his mouth. Of the two, the latter was preferable. Nicolò suddenly thought that if the Lord really was getting such pleasure from this, then maybe, maybe Nicolò could satisfy him with this strange activity, and be relieved from his penance of kneeling. Noblemen were famed for their eccentricities, after all.

That thought in mind, he closed his mouth around Lord Yusuf’s knuckles, and suckled at his fingertips.

“Nicolò--” the other man hissed. Encouraged, Nicolò sucked, pulling the fingers deeper into his mouth, and rubbed the flat of his tongue against them, hoping it was a pleasurable sensation. He focused as much attention as he could on the tiniest sensations in his mouth, imagining that he could almost feel the man’s fingerprints rubbing his tongue; tasting warm skin with a faint hint of salt; feeling the man’s neatly trimmed fingernails scrape against the roof of his mouth; smelling the perfume that wafted off his wrist.

Lord Yusuf was moaning openly now, blinking slowly down at Nicolò, as if in a stupor, staring at him, mouth agape. The deep noises were doing terrible things to Nicolò’s body; against all odds, he felt a spreading warmth in his groin, and tried to cut off all awareness of anything that was happening below his neck. He was not very successful. The pain in his legs was shouting at him that there was a pillow, a soft pillow, right there, and all Nicolò had to do was shift a couple feet to be free of this agony.

Lord Yusuf’s free hand was moving, Nicolò realized; no longer simply cupping his groin, but undoing the lower fastenings of his robes and pulling at the ties of his hose. 

“Nicolò,” the man moaned. “Keep doing that, that’s so good. I have to touch myself. I can feel everything you’re doing to my fingers like a whisper, an echo on my cock. It feels incredible. Don’t stop.”

Maybe if Lord Yusuf could find his satisfaction like this, Nicolò thought, then maybe he’d be able to get up. Maybe then his punishment could be over. Nicolò could tell himself he had no part in it, not really; _he_ was not the one giving in to the pleasures of the flesh; he was merely sucking on the man’s fingers. He had no say in the matter.

But that was harder to believe with every breathy moan the man released, every time Nicolò’s tongue darted between his fingers to slip against the delicate, sensitive skin where his forefinger and middle finger divided from his palm. Every time he pushed and pulled with his mouth, drawing the man’s fingers in and out, sliding over his wet and throbbing lips.

The pain in his legs was cresting, now, and it went on and on; Nicolò shifted, side to side, unable to hold his lower body still any longer, and the shocking bursts of pain rippling through him this time hurt so badly he felt unwanted tears prickle in his eyes. He could see, through his blurred vision, Lord Yusuf’s hand moving up and down, stroking slowly.

This whole thing was a farce, Nicolò thought. He was pleasuring Lord Yusuf now as surely as he would be with a cock in his mouth; the only difference was that if Nicolò gave in and admitted to a willingness to do what he was in essence already doing, then he could have the relief from pain his body was so desperately screaming for. What, indeed, was the point in resisting this man at all, when they both knew he ruled every detail of Nicolò’s continued existence?

He opened his mouth and tipped his head back so that the Lord’s fingers, wrinkly now from moisture, dropped out of his mouth and trailed saliva down his chin. “Your Lordship, if I may still, if I still have the choice. The--the cushion, please?” 

Lord Yusuf’s hand stilled at his crotch. Nicolò looked up. The smile spreading across the Lord’s face looked incongruous for the moment; it was not a sly, smirking smile of an incubus stealing a soul, but a wide, open smile of genuine joy, of a man receiving a wonderful present he didn’t think he could get. 

“Oh Nicolò,” the man whispered. “Of course, of course. Let me help you up.” He offered his arms for Nicolò to brace himself on, and as soon as he stood, the fiery pain crashing through his body ceased. He brushed away the rice grains that clung to his skin, wincing a little, and then sank to the cushion instead, boneless with relief.

This was so much better. _Infinitely_ better.

He sagged forward, letting his head rest on Lord Yusuf’s lap. “Thank you for letting me change my mind, my Lord,” he whispered. The back of his neck felt very warm. This close, he could smell the warm musk of the man’s groin. He wondered what that smell would translate to, as a taste in his mouth. He knew he was about to find out.

The Lord stroked his hair again, ever so gently, and Nicolò sighed. “Of course, Nicolò. I will always let you change your mind,” Lord Yusuf responded, his voice gentle and melodic. “I feel so lucky to have you here in front of me.

“Nicolò,” he added, sounding almost hesitant. “Before we begin, may I kiss you?” 

Nicolò nodded into Lord Yusuf’s legs. He’d kissed many others before, in greeting and in celebration. It was no particular cost to him to share a kiss. He drew backwards and put his palms on the man’s thighs, tipping his face up and waiting.

Lord Yusuf’s hands came up to frame Nicolò’s head, his fingertips gentle points of pressure cradling the back of Nicolò’s skull. He leaned in, slowly. His eyes were very dark, wide pupils edging out the honey brown of his irises. Nicolò felt warm breath ghost across his face, and then the Lord’s mouth was touching his.

This was...nothing like any of those kisses Nicolò had ever shared with his Church brethren.

Nothing at all.

Yusuf’s lips-- _Lord_ Yusuf’s lips, that is--were warm and soft and pliant. They did not just brush against Nicolò’s and pull back. No, they stayed, melting, melding against Nicolò’s lips, moving gently but insistently, tugging Nicolò’s upper lip into his mouth until Nicolò was sucking on Yusuf’s full lower lip, entirely by accident, and the soft palms pressed against either side of his jaw were maneuvering Nicolò’s face, tilting him, and there was a tongue slipping wet and sure against Nicolò’s and he _gasped--_

And then the man drew back, and released Nicolò’s face from his hold, and Nicolò could only touch his hand to his mouth in wonder. He had no idea a kiss could be like that.

He realized that he was breathing rather rapidly, and his manhood was stiffening within his smallclothes. He hoped Lord Yusuf couldn’t see any change beneath his layers.

“You’re a treasure, Nicolò,” Lord Yusuf murmured. “You’re stunning right now. Your cheeks are so pink.” He stroked a hand across one cheek, then drew back. “Now. Let me show you what I like.”

Lord Yusuf pulled his robe off completely, letting it bunch between his back and the back of the loveseat. His arms and torso were well-muscled; he looked almost like a sculpture. He adjusted the flies of his hose, parting the fabric, revealing not just his hard, circumcised cock, but large, firm testicles and thick, dark hair curling down his stomach and carpeting his groin. Nicolò knew he was staring openly. He’d never been this close to another man’s cock before and had never even seen a circumcised one. His shaft looked strangely smooth, with a marked shift in skin tone halfway up, and the head looked vulnerable. Unprotected.

“Now, Nicolò,” Lord Yusuf said, drawing him out of his reverie. His hand was petting Nicolò’s hair again. “I’m going to shift forward on this seat so you can reach better, and I don’t want you to rush. Just lick at first, alright? Take your time. You can use your hands. I’ll tell you when I want you to take me into your mouth.”

Nicolò nodded. The Lord was being surprisingly kind and gentle with him. He didn’t know exactly what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this.

Lord Yusuf moved further to the edge of the loveseat, spreading his legs to make room for Nicolò between them, and Nicolò leaned in. His crotch didn’t smell bad, not at all. It just smelled like a body, with something a little sharper, a note Nicolò couldn’t name but didn’t mind. He opened his mouth and licked tentatively over the head, drawing a gasp out of Yusuf.

A salty flavor bloomed on his tongue, slightly bitter. Nicolò felt an unwelcome throb in his own groin and promptly shoved away that awareness. Nicolò crept a hand forward and wrapped his fingers around the base of Lord Yusuf’s cock so that he could direct it where he wanted it, and he lapped at the head several more times, encouraged by the soft sounds Yusuf was making above him. 

“Lick around the edge, the swell of the head. Just the tip of your tongue--mm, yes, like that. That’s so good, Nicolò.” Nicolò traced circles around the tip with his tongue, marveling at how slick and smooth the skin got when it was wet, almost frictionless. 

“Oh, that’s lovely. Those circles are so lovely. That’s such a good boy,” Lord Yusuf praised, and Nicolò felt a strange frisson race from the base of his skull to the small of his back. “Try the shaft, Nicolò? Long, flat licks. Longer than that, please, start at the base and then--oh fuck, oh fuck. Yes, keep doing that. That’s so good.”

Nicolò refused to think about what he was doing or whether he wanted it. All his attention was on the words falling from Lord Yusuf’s lips and the contours of his dick against Nicolò’s tongue. He could pray for forgiveness later, if need be. Right now, he had a task to see to.

“Nicolò, Nicolò, I’m ready, please. Just open your mouth and hold still for me, can you do that?” Nicolò pulled back slightly and allowed his hand on Lord Yusuf’s dick to be covered with Lord Yusuf’s hand. His thumb folded over Nicolò’s fingers and the tips of his fingertips stroked the inside of Nicolò’s wrist. 

“Stick your tongue out as far as you can get it. Good.” The Lord drew the bulbous tip of his cock across Nicolò’s tongue, swiping it slowly side to side, tracing a path through the saliva that pooled there. 

Nicolò rolled his eyes up to look at Lord Yusuf’s face, curious what he would see. As soon as they made eye contact, the Lord whined, deep in his throat. His mouth was opening and closing, pressing together his lips and then flicking his tongue out to lick them as if his face didn’t know what it wanted to do. His eyelids would blink rapidly, eyelashes fluttering, and then Yusuf would open them wide, as if he needed them to be as open as possible to take in the sight before him. His hand spasmed at the back of Nicolò’s head. 

“I want to fuck your mouth so badly, sweet Nicolò,” he moaned. “But I know you’re not ready for that. When I tap your head, you’re going to close your mouth and slide your lips down my shaft. Roll your lips over your teeth so you don’t hurt me. Don’t worry about swallowing your spit, just let it drip out. It will make things easier. Don’t take me too deep, don’t hurt yourself. Are you ready?”

Nicolò nodded, tongue still flat against the underside of Lord Yusuf’s cockhead. Then he felt a gentle tap at the crown of his head. He did as he was told, and wrapped his lips around his teeth, then his mouth around the crown of Yusuf’s cock, sliding his mouth down a little, feeling the head hit the roof of his mouth.

“ _Fuck,_ oh fuck, you’re perfect. So perfect. Do that again, up and down, nice and slow.” 

Nicolò set a slow pace, bobbing his head and letting the rhythm of Lord Yusuf’s moans sink into his skin. He felt saliva pooling in his mouth and remembered what he was told, opening his lips just enough to make space to let it roll out of his mouth and drip down Yusuf’s shaft. It eased the friction on his lips and made the next slide of his mouth down his cock easier. He could feel the spit wetting his fingers where they were still held firmly against the base of the shaft by Yusuf’s hand and he shifted his fingers a little. 

As if remembering their hands, Yusuf guided Nicolò’s up and down, his spit smoothing the way. “That’s right, this speed--just like this--Nicolò, up and down. Let me control it. Move your hand up and down, in tandem with your mouth. Wetter, Nicolò, get me wetter than that.” Nicolò let his lips leak more saliva out and coat the palm of his hands. “Yessss,” the nobleman hissed above him.

Nicolò’s neck was starting to hurt, but he was scared of what would happen if he stopped before Lord Yusuf was satisfied. He incremented his pace, just a touch, and Lord Yusuf hissed again. 

“Oh, God, Nicolò, oh, fuck. I’m going to come like this. _Fuck_ , Nicolò, _fuck,_ shit--” and then the hand on his head was holding him still as Yusuf’s hips jerked his cock up and into Nicolò’s waiting mouth, Yusuf’s hand speeding up atop Nicolò’s and stripping the shaft of his dick faster until Nicolò felt a rush of warm liquid in his mouth, surprising him. He coughed, and most of it splattered all over Lord Yusuf’s dick. Nicolò swallowed the rest and looked up, fearfully.

Lord Yusuf bent over and leaned his forehead against Nicolò’s hair. He was breathing heavily, gasping for breath. _Perhaps he doesn’t mind being covered in his own semen,_ Nicolò thought.

“I should have given you more warning,” Lord Yusuf murmured into his hair. “I was just so overwhelmed,” he mused. “Thinking about how no man had ever come in your mouth, and no other man ever will. Only me.” He untangled their hands from the mess at his crotch so that he could cradle Nicolò’s jaw with his hands. Nicolò felt several soft kisses planted in his hair. “You’re so good, habibi. So glad that you’re mine.” 

Nicolò didn’t recognize that word. Habibi. He wondered what it meant. He didn’t feel entirely grounded in his body. The whole thing was a bit unreal.

“Now, let’s get cleaned up, shall we? It’s time I showed you to my baths.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think of my fucked-up porn.


	3. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò confesses his sins. Yusuf confesses something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't even a Febuwhump fill. I still need to write my Febuwhump fill. But plot-wise, this had to come before the next chapter.
> 
> Tags have been updated. Read them. Remember how I said in Chapter 1 that this is not a nice story?
> 
> This is not a nice story.
> 
> This chapter addresses childhood sexual abuse in the Catholic Church and the [problem of evil](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Problem_of_evil). You have been warned.

Lord Yusuf must have sensed that Nicolò was feeling fragile, for after he brought Nicolò to his baths, he called down Suhana to assist him, and left them there.

The mosaic floor and walls were beautiful, the baths unlike anything he’d seen in his life, but Nicolò did not think he could properly appreciate them in his current state of mind. He felt unmoored from his body, watching his own hand move through the water as if it belonged to somebody else. Suhana took his clothes and brought him fresh ones. 

After, he picked at his dinner and fell asleep early.

When he woke in the morning, it was just before dawn. He remembered what he had done and laid there, in his bed, face pressed to his pillows, his back cold now that the fire in the grate was dead. He realized that somebody must have been stoking the fire while he slept on prior nights, keeping his room warm, for the chill in his chamber was atypical. 

Nicolò clenched his hands around the sheet beneath him. He knew what he had to do.

He waited, paging through his Bible, looking at the words but not really reading them, until finally Suhana arrived with his breakfast. “I need a confessor,” he told her, sitting on his low, wooden stool as she finished applying ointment to his back.

“There’s no priest at the manor,” she answered, brusquely, then wiped her hands and turned to go.

“Please, Suhana,” he said, standing and turning. He caught her sleeve. He didn’t know what to say to this woman, didn’t know what faith she practiced, if any. “It’s--my immortal soul.”

She pursed her lips. “I will ask His Lordship.” Nicolò nodded and released her. “Thank you,” he said, sincerely.

That afternoon, Paolo and Suhana escorted him for a walk around the grounds, as was their routine. Nicolò stayed out longer than usual, the sun on his face and bare back making him feel blessedly alive and present. He visited the barn, breathing in the familiar scents of hay and animal dung, stopping to pat the necks of the horses who poked their heads into the corridor curiously. He climbed a hill he knew had an especially pretty view, and gazed out at the fields beneath him, green and muddy with the spring weather, at the herds of cows and flocks of sheep like little dots in the distance.

This world was not so bad. It was only his particular circumstances that demanded special forbearance. He could bear them. He knew he could, if he just placed his faith in God.

His soul cried out for confession.

That evening, rather than bringing him his dinner, Suhana informed him that Lord Yusuf was entertaining his request, and Nicolò was invited to eat with him. His heart rate picked up.

“What do I wear?” he asked her. She looked thoughtful and opened the large wardrobe, thumbing through the few items hanging within. She plucked a dark red tunic out, as well as a pair of golden hose that Nicolò hadn’t touched yet due to how expensive they looked. 

“These. I’ll wait outside the door for you.”

Nicolò examined himself in the mirror and attempted to straighten out his hair a bit, then changed into the clothes Suhana had laid out on the bed. His legs looked...gaudy, frankly. Like he was a peacock or a bit of statuary rather than a man. He sighed and left his room to follow Suhana...just a few doors down from his own room. 

He supposed that made sense; he’d known Lord Yusuf’s chambers were nearby his own, and it was logical that the man had a private dining room. Nicolò was just so used to group meals at long, large, rough-hewn tables, shoulder to shoulder with his fellow Brothers.

The Lord’s dining room was compact, but opulent. A small, round table was set with a fine tablecloth and adorned with gleaming cutlery and candlesticks.

Suhana gestured to one of the chairs, and he sat down. “Rise when His Lordship enters,” she reminded him before departing, an instruction he was grateful for, certain he would have forgotten to do so in its absence.

Nicolò didn’t have to wait long. Lord Yusuf arrived a few minutes later, through a different door. Nicolò noticed immediately that his circlet was missing. His curls looked very well-defined, shining in the candlelight from the table, and his beard was freshly trimmed. Nicolò was so arrested looking at him that he almost forgot to stand, and when he did, he rose so quickly that he nearly knocked his chair over and had to steady it. “My Lord,” he blurted.

“Nicolò,” Lord Yusuf said, through a smile. They looked at each other for a moment. “You look very fine today. Your legs are works of art.”

Nicolò blushed, taken aback, but luckily Lord Yusuf pulled his chair out and sat down. “Thank you for joining me for dinner.”

Nicolò took that as his cue, and also sat. He still didn’t know what to say. _I’m only here because I want something?_ “Certainly, Your Grace,” he stammered, and was granted a quick smile. 

A servingman Nicolò did not recognize arrived with their food, then, and portioned out vegetables, meat, gravy, as well as a strange jelly Nicolò had never seen before, and poured them each some tea. Nicolò had enough presence of mind to wait for Lord Yusuf to take the first bite before he picked up his cutlery.

“This food is quite rich,” he offered, into the silence that ensued.

“Ah, yes,” Lord Yusuf responded. “This must be a bit decadent for you. I asked the kitchens to keep your meals plain. I didn’t want to upset your stomach with food so different from the fare at the abbey.”

Nicolò was struck speechless. That was--shockingly thoughtful. He had no idea what to make of it.

“That--that’s extremely kind of you, My Lord,” he finally managed.

“Nicolò,” Lord Yusuf said, and set down his fork and knife to regard him with focused attention. “I want you to be happy and comfortable here. I hope one day you will see that.”

Nicolò swallowed. He could not bear the intensity of the eye contact, and glanced down to fiddle with the edge of the tablecloth. This seemed like as good a time as any to bring up his need. “I, I wanted…” he started, but his throat was very dry. He grasped his teacup and took a sip. It tasted of mint. Nicolò forced himself to look at Lord Yusuf’s face. He seemed to be waiting patiently for Nicolò to finish his sentence. Nicolò took another sip and straightened his spine.

“Your Grace, I was hoping to visit with a confessor.”

“Why?” Lord Yusuf asked, simply.

“I--it is a common practice, among my faith.”

“I know that, Nicolò, I wasn’t born yesterday. I mean why in a more specific sense.”

“I, I have sins to confess, Your Lordship,” Nicolò responded. He hoped desperately that Lord Yusuf wouldn’t make him elaborate.

“Hm,” The Lord grunted, and picked up his cutlery to eat another bite. Nicolò sat and watched, hands wrapped around his teacup.

“Shall I send for someone from the abbey, then?” Lord Yusuf asked, glancing up from his plate and raising his eyebrows at Nicolò.

Nicolò winced. He knew it shouldn’t matter for the purposes of confession, but he was hoping to keep details of his new life far, far away from his former Church family for as long as possible. “If that is the only option, Your Grace, but I was hoping for someone else, if that could be arranged?”

Lord Yusuf took another bite and chewed before answering. “That may not be simple, Nicolò. The next closest parish is some distance from here.”

“I understand, Your Grace.”

“They may be unwilling to travel, or it may take extra time.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I will have to compensate them. It will cost me coin.”

Nicolò set his teacup back on its plate so that he could wring his hands anxiously under the table.

“I understand, Your Grace.”

“But this is important to you?”

“Very important, Sire,” Nicolò whispered, and looked earnestly at Lord Yusuf’s thoughtful face. There was a long, pregnant pause as Lord Yusuf ate more of his dinner.

“Very well, Nicolò. Consider it done.”

A surge of relief overtook Nicolò, and he felt almost faint with it. “Oh, thank you. Thank you, Your Grace. You are too generous.”

Lord Yusuf looked up from his plate and smiled wide and joyful at Nicolò then, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Nicolò’s hands spasmed where they were hidden under the table. “Nonsense, Nicolò. You’re in my care, and I’m determined to see to your needs. _All_ your needs.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Nicolò said again, aware he was repeating himself. Lord Yusuf nodded. The conversation seemed to be over, then. Nicolò ate as much of his dinner as he could, for it was indeed delicious, but the food was very heavy in his stomach. The servingman offered a bottle of wine when Lord Yusuf was done with his dinner, but he waved it away and stood. Nicolò hastened to follow suit. 

“Good night, Nicolò. Sleep well.”

“Good night, My Lord.”

Nicolò did not have to wait very long for his request to bear fruit. Two days passed. Each morning, Nicolò awoke to a dead hearth and a cold room. Around noontime of the third day, a knock came at his bedroom door. It was Paolo, who informed him that a Father Spinello had arrived to visit, and who escorted Nicolò down to a small, private sitting room near the front entrance. Inside sat a priest whom he did not recognize. Paolo, thankfully, shut the door, leaving them their privacy. 

Nicolò made the sign of the cross and sat in a chair across from the priest. A screen would have been nice, but it was unnecessary.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Nicolò began. A peace began to settle over him at those familiar words. “It has been ten days since my last confession.”

Nicolò paused to order his thoughts. “I have been slothful some mornings and slow to rise, wasting several hours in idleness. Three nights ago, I skipped my evening prayers.” He took in a long breath and let it out. “I have...felt resentment toward God for the situation I now find myself in.” Nicolò paused again. “I have harbored lust in my heart. For a man. And most terribly of all, I have broken my solemn vow of chastity.” It was hard to go on. 

Father Spinello gestured. “That is a mortal sin, my child. God wishes you to confess your sins in full.”

Nicolò nodded. His throat was closing up. “I...committed sodomy. I allowed a man to use my mouth for sexual gratification.” Nicolò took in another deep breath, and it shuddered out of him as he released it. “This is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all my sins.”

“I can see you are penitent, my child. For your venial sins, you must say three Our Fathers and a Hail Mary. For your mortal sins, you must perform a kindness to the less fortunate, and pray the rosary twice.”

“Thank you, Father,” Nicolò said. “My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I detest all my sins because of your just punishment, but most of all because they offend you, my God, who are good and deserving of my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace, to sin no more.”

“God, the Father of mercies,” the priest intoned, “through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself, and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. May God grant you pardon and peace. And I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen,” Nicolò murmured. He felt much lighter, freer. As if he was not the man who had kneeled for Yusuf al-Kaysani and dirtied himself, but the man he’d been before, a child of God.

They stood together. The priest reached out to clasp Nicolò’s hands in his own. “Go and sin no more,” he said with a small, encouraging smile. 

“Thank you, Father.”

Nicolò found himself with more energy than usual. He asked Paolo if they might visit the kitchen instead of returning to his room, and he ended up taking his midday meal sitting around a barrel-top with Paolo and two scullery maids who giggled and flirted shamelessly with both of them. Nicolò merely blushed and ducked his head. 

On his afternoon walk, he didn’t even mind so much that Suhana and Paolo ignored him, enmeshed in their own conversation. The breeze was warm and inviting across his face. Yellow and purple flowers bloomed by the side of the barn, and he crouched to inspect them.

Upon returning to his room, Nicolò opened the door and jumped to see Lord Yusuf within, dressed in spring green robes, his back to the door, leaning against the window sill and gazing out at his grounds and flocks. Lord Yusuf turned. The light behind him and the fact that Nicolò had just been outdoors meant that Nicolò could see little of his face. “My Lord?” he asked, nervously, leaving the door open.

“Shut the door, Nicolò.” Lord Yusuf said, firmly, and Nicolò saw no option but to do so. He stood against it, hands clasped together.

“Do you feel better now?” the Lord asked.

“Oh, yes, Sire. Much better.” 

Lord Yusuf hummed and went to sit in the armchair. “Have a seat, Nicolò.”

Nicolò moved to sit on the loveseat and turned his body to watch Lord Yusuf. He wondered what this was about, if he’d be expected to...do things. Again. Nausea rose in his gut.

“Nicolò…” Lord Yusuf began. He paused, and Nicolò waited. “Could you help me understand? I want to know you. I want to understand the things that are important to you.”

Nicolò cocked his head in curiosity. “You wish to understand...my confession?” he ventured.

“Yes. And your faith, in general, I suppose. What makes you believe in God?”

Nicolò was taken aback. “Well, the Bible, of course, marks down his presence, it tells us of His nature.”

“Who wrote the Bible, Nicolò?”

“Men. Messengers of God.”

“How do you know they were messengers of God and not lying?”

Nicolò frowned.

“It is just…” Lord Yusuf continued. “Men frequently lie to make themselves seem more important than they are.”

Nicolò nodded, slowly. He had noticed that as well. He stared into the middle distance and thought about Yusuf’s question.

“I suppose, even if the Bible is not true--and I think that it is--but even if it isn’t, who made the world? Who put us here? The miracles of life are all around us.”

Yusuf glanced up. His eyes were hungry. “Yes. Yes, they are, that much is true.” 

Nicolò swallowed and looked away. “Who do you think made the world?” he asked.

“That, I do not know,” Lord Yusuf admitted. “But I think whoever this Maker is, he cannot be Good.”

“What?” Nicolò asked, perturbed. “What do you mean?”

“Look at the suffering all around us. The plagues, the starvation and the pains. Why would a just God build a world like this?”

“The suffering is our fault. We let in original sin.”

“We? Who is this we?”

“Surely you’ve heard this story? Adam and Eve, the first man and the first woman.”

Yusuf huffed. “Of course I’ve heard the story, but it’s never made much sense to me. Why must I atone for another person’s sins, a person I’ve never met? And Nicolò--” Here Lord Yusuf stood and began to pace the floor between the vanity and the door. “Nicolò, do you believe that children are bad? That children deserve to suffer?”

Nicolò shook his head. “No. I love children.”

“Of course you do, because you are _a good person_.” Lord Yusuf gestured emphatically. “And yet the messengers of your God, the men serving your Pope, who I am given to understand is handpicked by God himself. Those messengers…”

Nicolò was truly confused now. “What about them? Priests?”

Lord Yusuf stopped his pacing and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Father Spinello, in fact.”

“What of him?” Dread began to build in Nicolò’s stomach.

“Nicolò…” Lord Yusuf began. He crossed to the window and stared out of it again. “Whoever your God is…” Nicolò had to strain to hear his words, they were so quiet. “He allows his representatives on Earth to commit great harm. He is all-powerful. All-knowing. And yet. He allows men like Father Spinello to...to hurt innocents. To hurt children.” 

Nicolò felt ill.

Lord Yusuf turned towards him. His brow was deeply furrowed, his face troubled. “Why do you care about the absolution of men like that?”

“How...how do you know this? How do you know what Father Spinello does?”

“I hold an audience with my subjects fortnightly, for the resolution of grievances. A mother from his village came to me. She had exhausted all Church avenues. They would do nothing to remove Father Spinello from his position. She begged me for help. The best I could do was find her husband some work in a different town.”

Nicolò could hear a roaring in his ears. “So you know this is happening, and yet you do not stop it?” Nicolò asked, incredulously.

“Nicolò. Think for a moment. What would you have me do? Surely you’ve noticed that I am not an ordinary liege lord for these parts? The king allows me to keep my seat because of my wealth, and because I know how to bribe and charm the right people. But the Church--the Church is incredibly powerful. They would love an excuse to overthrow me, behead me, turn the lands that have belonged to my family for generations over to someone paler and more Christian. And then what would become of Suhana? Of Kabir? Of their families?”

Nicolò shook his head, desperate to deny what he was hearing. 

“No? No what, Nicolò?” Lord Yusuf’s voice was almost...pleading.

“You have to stop him,” Nicolò said, hoarsely. He stood and walked, slowly, to the window, until he was face to face with Lord Yusuf. His face was pinched, his eyebrows drawn together.

“What would you have me do, Nicolò?” he asked, quietly. He sounded so unlike himself. Unsure.

Nicolò swallowed past the lump in his throat. “He’s. He’s hurting children. Please stop him, Your Grace. _Please._ By… by any means necessary.”

Yusuf stared intently into his eyes, and for the first time, Nicolò felt no impulse to look away. “Are you sure you know what you’re asking for?”

“I do. Yes.”

Lord Yusuf clenched his jaw and nodded. “I will leave tonight, then.”

“What? You--?”

Lord Yusuf folded his arms across his chest and turned to look out the window. The sun was low in the sky. “This is not a thing to be entrusted to anyone else.” He nodded once to himself, decisively, and then headed for the door without looking back at Nicolò.

Nicolò tried to think of something to say before he left, but his mind was blank. He was still reeling from the revelations of the past few minutes.

Lord Yusuf paused, his hand on the door handle. His eyes were cast downward, fixed on the floor. “Forgive me my dramatics, Nicolò, but. If I do not return. I want you to know that I did it out of love for you.”

And then he was gone.


	4. Assault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Yusuf returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the tags. Now read the chapter title.
> 
> Everyone still with me? Great. Let's go.

Nicolò found it very difficult to sleep that night; he had no way to tell time, but he felt certain that every time he awoke, he’d only slept for the briefest of periods. His back was very itchy, but he knew he must not scratch his scabs unless he wanted them to scar. Finally, some hours in, he pushed himself out of bed and laced up his shoes. 

He’d never tried to leave his bedroom in the night before. He creaked open his door, uncertain of who he should expect to be standing guard in the hallway. To his surprise, there was nobody there: no one at all. No torches were lit in the corridor, but it was bright enough from the moon and starlight streaming in through the windows at both ends, and light from the floor below trickled up from the staircase.

It was very quiet. Nicolò felt like he could be the only one awake in the entire manor. He crept down the corridor, uncertain of his destination. At the railing, he poked his head over to look down at the floor below. From here, he could just barely make out a faint murmuring of staff.

He doubled back and tested the door closest to his own. It was very dark inside, but it appeared to be a deep closet, shelves stacked high with clothes and linens. He shut the door quietly and tried the next one. It was a sitting room; a very fine one, illuminated by the window set into the wall opposite Nicolò. He shut the door and moved on. Nicolò knew that the door after that was Lord Yusuf’s private dining room. 

Nicolò crept down the hallway to the final door on this side of the corridor. It, too, opened beneath his hand.

Beyond was an enormous bedroom, with a four-poster bed, a sitting area, a huge, ornate vanity, and three large, finely adorned wardrobes that had clearly been carved as a set. The windows on either side of the bed were stained glass, and the window between the vanity and the sitting area was a large picture window with its own bench for sitting on. Several easels were scattered around the room, and large canvases hung on the walls, though Nicolò could not make out what was depicted on them in the darkness.

He felt quite certain he should not be here. He stepped all the way in and closed the door behind him.

Lord Yusuf was not in his bed, though Nicolò had been expecting that. The whole room smelled of him, though; the perfume he dotted on his wrists and the oil he used in his hair and beard. 

Nicolò could not name the emotion in his heart at that moment. It felt both brittle and somehow fierce. The darkness surrounding him cocooned and cradled him, making the impossible things that lurked at the corners of his awareness seem a little less frightening. The night boxed it out, holding it at bay, on a countdown until sunrise.

Nicolò approached the bed and brushed his fingertips against the blankets. They were _incredibly_ soft. He had never felt fabric so soft before. The closest thing he could compare it to was the fur of the rabbits that Brother Francesco kept. 

Nicolò wondered if perhaps the bedding was soft enough that he might finally recline on his half-healed back. He would only test it for a moment.

He removed his shoes, then peeled back the layers of thick blankets and climbed beneath them. The mattress itself was thick and luxurious, possibly stuffed with goose down. Nicolò had never lain on something so comfortable. The pillows against his face smelled even more strongly of Yusuf’s hair oils, a scent Nicolò found quite pleasant. 

He rolled over in the bed, experimentally, cautiously, onto his back.

It did hurt, a bit, but not as bad as he expected. As long as he held still, the pain faded away quickly.

Nicolò’s last thought before he drifted off was that this must be what it was like to recline on a cloud.

Nicolò woke to the muffled sound of raised voices. He was deeply disoriented. Where was he? What time was it? The light was brighter than it ought to be--late morning? 

_Shit._ He was in Lord Yusuf’s bed. And the raised voice was none other than Lord Yusuf’s.

Lord Yusuf, who had returned alive.

“Where could he be? Have you searched the barn? The kitchens? Sweep the grounds. If he’s run away while I was gone--” the bedroom door banged open, and Lord Yusuf stopped dead in his tracks, mid-rant.

“Never mind,” he called out to the hallway. “I’ve found him.” A sweet, slow smile was creeping over his face. Yusuf shut the door with a firm click and came to sit on the bed. “Good morning, Nicolò.”

Nicolò blinked and swallowed. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

Lord Yusuf shifted further up the bed, closer to Nicolò’s head, and folded his legs beneath him. There were circles under his eyes that spoke of little if any sleep. His hand lifted to hover over Nicolò’s face. “May I touch you, Nicolò?” he asked softly. Nicolò nodded. Gentle fingers brushed hair off his forehead, away from his eyes, and then slid back to tuck a lock behind his ear.

“I’ve imagined this so many times,” Lord Yusuf whispered. The line of his mouth was soft and vulnerable, his eyes wistful. “Just like this. Touching your hair in the morning after it’s been mussed against my pillows.”

Nicolò felt a pleasant tingle creep over his scalp. “Oh,” he said, dumbly.

Lord Yusuf continued to stroke his hair. Every time his palm brushed over the shell of Nicolò’s ear, Nicolò felt a pulse of heat in his stomach and hips. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Lord Yusuf murmured, almost to himself. “I will never tire of looking at you.” He huffed then, a smile curling his lips. “But I will tire. Right now, in fact.” He stretched his arms above his head and yawned. Nicolò immediately missed the comfort of the hand in his hair. “It was a very long night for me. May I sleep in my bed?”

“Oh, um, yes, Sire,” Nicolò said, struggling to pull himself out from the covers.

Lord Yusuf grabbed his wrist and stroked it with his thumb. “Stay, please? I would not be alone right now.” Nicolò stared at him, thinking. His brown eyes were round and glittering in the morning light, the skin beneath them puffy and tired-looking.

Nicolò bit his tongue and nodded, then laid back amongst the pillows.

Lord Yusuf stood to shuck his clothing. Nicolò turned his face and closed his eyes. He heard a wardrobe door being opened, and sighed a small sigh of relief that the man would not sleep in the nude. Lord Yusuf drew curtains over all three of his windows, plunging the room into half-darkness, and then climbed into the opposite side of the bed from Nicolò and burrowed under the covers.

“Is it done, then? Your Grace?” Nicolò asked, quietly. He blinked his eyes open. Lord Yusuf’s bare shoulder was only inches away from his face. His eyelids were shut, eyelashes fanning out against his cheeks.

“It is,” Lord Yusuf answered.

“He won’t--he won’t hurt anybody else?” Nicolò asked, voice small.

“No, Nicolò. Not ever again.” Nicolò swallowed.

The room was very quiet, then. Nicolò closed his eyes and inhaled the aroma of beard oil, horse, and road dust. Lord Yusuf must have spent nearly the whole night on horseback. 

Only a brief minute later, Lord Yusuf’s breathing changed, evening out.

Having been allotted his own, small cot in the abbey’s dormitory, Nicolò had not slept beside another person since he was a child. It was surprisingly soporific.

* * *

When Nicolò woke, he was sweaty and overheating. He stretched out a foot, automatically, seeking fresh air to ventilate, and froze at the feel of a furred calf brushing against his own. In fact, it wasn’t just Lord Yusuf’s leg he was pressed against, Nicolò realized as sensation rushed into his conscious awareness. Nicolò was curled half on top of the nobleman’s body, lying in his arms, his cheek pressed against the man’s firm, hairy chest, his left leg resting atop the other man’s thighs. Lord Yusuf’s muscled arm was curled around him, resting against the tops of Nicolò’s shoulders.

And worst of all, Nicolò’s customary morning hardness had arisen and was currently pressed up against Lord Yusuf’s hip. Nicolò tried to increment his hips backward, but apparently any movement at all was a problem, because heat blossomed in Nicolò’s gut and raced up his spine.

“Mmnn--Nicolò?” Lord Yusuf asked, sleep dragging at his voice, chest rumbling against Nicolò’s face.

No. No no no.

“I--uh--Your Grace--” Nicolò stammered, then clamped his mouth shut. He had no idea how to extricate himself from this situation.

“Oh, _Nicolò_ ,” Lord Yusuf murmured, a knowing tone creeping in. He cleared his throat. “I see how it is.” He rolled their bodies, reversing their positions so that Nicolò was on his back. He tensed, expecting pain from his lash wounds, but it spiked only briefly and faded away in an instant. Lord Yusuf shifted his leg and pressed his clothed thigh deliberately against Nicolò’s erection, rolling against it lightly. _Shit,_ that felt so good. Nicolò wormed his arms between their bodies and rested his palms against Lord Yusuf’s chest in an attempt to forestall further movement.

“Lord Yusuf, I can’t. I mean…” his breath stuttered out of him at the wave of sinful pleasure that radiated out from his groin as Lord Yusuf rubbed his inner thigh against Nicolò’s cock insistently. “No,” he gasped. “Stop. Please stop, Sire.”

Lord Yusuf’s thigh stilled against him, but he did not pull away.

“Why?” he asked.

“It is a _sin_ ,” Nicolò responded, frantically. “A sin to lie with a man as with a woman.”

“I assure you, laying with me will be nothing at all like laying with a woman, Nicolò,” Lord Yusuf purred, and rutted his own thickening erection against Nicolò’s hip.

“Please, Your Grace,” Nicolò said, a weak, unwanted teariness creeping into his voice. “I can’t do this.”

“What if _you’re_ not doing anything, Nicolò?” Lord Yusuf asked. He leaned in, his lips brushing against Nicolò’s ear and sending a shiver all the way down to his toes. “You should just lie there and let me take what I want,” he husked, his voice deep. 

“I--I--”

“God could hardly expect you to fight _me_ , Nicolò. After all, you’re practically my property. Here,” he said, leaning up on his elbow and grabbing Nicolò’s wrists in one hand from where they’d still been pressing futilely against his chest, then pinning them against Nicolò’s torso. “Let me make it easy for you.” He resumed the gentle hitching movements of his thigh against Nicolò’s cock through his sleeping pants and Nicolò’s dressing gown. 

“ _Nngh_ ,” Nicolò groaned. “No--oh, God, n-no, please,” he choked out.

“That’s good, Nicolò. God can tell how good you are. He can hear that you don’t want this. Tell me ‘no’ again, Nicolò. Make sure all God’s angels can hear you, too.”

“No,” Nicolò whispered. A tear rolled out of his eye and dripped past his ear, soaking into the hair splayed out against the pillow. Another tear leaked out to follow its path, and Yusuf leaned in to lick it off his face.

“Louder than that, Nicolò,” Lord Yusuf commanded. He pressed his lips to the corner of Nicolò’s mouth.

“No,” Nicolò said again. “Stop, please.” Lord Yusuf’s thigh had set up an insistent, rolling rhythm against his cock, and wave after wave of heat rolled into Nicolò’s body, emanating from his groin. He’d never felt this much blissful, sugary pleasure before in his entire life. 

“Louder.”

“ _No_ ,” Nicolò said, raising his voice. “No, no, no, no,” he chanted, as the pleasure built inside him. His fingers scrabbled against the skin of his stomach, desperate to grab onto something, to anchor himself, but he couldn’t move his arms under Yusuf’s grip. He bent his legs and planted his feet against the bed, and even the luxurious softness of the sheets against the soles of his feet conspired against him to wind the mounting pleasure in his groin even tighter.

“You’re so good, Nicolò,” Yusuf murmured, breath ghosting across Nicolò’s panting mouth. “So good. I see how hard you try. The perfect little church boy.” Yusuf leaned over him, bearing down on Nicolò with more of his weight, and swiftly switched out the hand that was pinning Nicolò’s wrists down. He moved his thigh down just enough to make room for his free hand to stroke Nicolò through his dressing gown.

Nicolò threw his head back and gasped for air, the crown of his head pressed and thrashing against Lord Yusuf’s pillows.

“Oh--oh--” Nicolò moaned, as skillful fingers fisted him through cloth and slid up and down his length, firmly and insistently. He was almost there, he knew something wonderful and terrible was about to happen, that Yusuf was going to force an orgasm out of him no matter what Nicolò said or did.

It was that thought--that white-hot burning thought--that shoved Nicolò over the edge. His hips humped up against Yusuf’s hand, thigh and ass muscles clenching, out of his control, and his orgasm hit him with a fury Nicolò had never before experienced. He was falling falling falling off a cliff, air and ecstasy rushing past him and through and into his body, out his toes and fingertips, and most of all, out his dick, spurting out his spend and pleasure, soaking his pubic hair and the fabric of his dressing gown. And through it all, Yusuf stared down at him and moaned and humped his cock faster and faster against Nicolò’s hip and then came, shuddering in great wracking spasms against him.

The wave of shame that followed in the aftermath did not even give Nicolò the smallest chance to rest or breathe. It was practically instantaneous, chasing on the heels of his orgasm. 

Nicolò turned his head sideways, away from Lord Yusuf. “I’m going to Hell,” he croaked. It was the chief thought at the forefront of his mind.

“What?” Lord Yusuf asked, a hint of anger in his voice. “Why would you say that?” He grabbed Nicolò’s jaw and forced him to turn his face.

“I’ve committed another mortal sin, just now. And I have no one to confess to. If I die like this...” he trailed off.

Lord Yusuf scowled deeply, his mien dark and frightening. “You can’t be serious. _This_ is the mortal sin? This is what will send you to Hell? Nicolò, you just had me _murder_ a _priest_.”

Nicolò stared at him, jaw agape. “I...I…”

“You what, Nicolò? You think God doesn’t care? That because you weren’t there, because you didn’t hold the pillow over a sleeping man’s face and suffocate him, that you carry no guilt? I did it for _you_ , Nicolò!” Lord Yusuf released him, then, and sat up against the headboard, dropping his face into his hands.

Nicolò began to weep, silently, limbs splayed out and body shaking with suppressed sobs.

“Oh, Nicolò,” Yusuf sighed, after a while. He reached over and gathered Nicolò’s limp body into his arms. “Nicolò, darling. Your pleasure was not your fault, my love.” He pressed a long kiss against the top of Nicolò’s head. “I did it to you, sweetheart,” he said, squeezing Nicolò carefully, as if he might break. “I did it to you.”

Nicolò nodded his wet face against Yusuf’s chest. A terrifying, inexorable certainty was rising within him:

He was not going to make it out of here. Brother Nicolò was already gone, and Nicolò could feel himself changing further, into something unrecognizable, the layers of his identity being scrubbed away, toughness exchanged for delicacy and delicacy for toughness. He’d only been in the manor less than a fortnight, and already he’d done and thought things he could never have conceived of in his entire life before this place. 

But what options did he have? Nicolò was not the one in control.

 _Get out,_ he thought. _Go._ What was that Lord Yusuf had said, before he knew Nicolò was in his bedchamber?

_“If he’s run away while I was gone…”_

That was a possibility. Nicolò could run away.

He had nowhere to go, but maybe that didn't matter. He could stay here and be wholly transformed, or he could run away and be Nicolò in the wilderness.

And if he was going to run away, he needed Lord Yusuf and his staff to be as unsuspecting as possible.

Nicolò calmed his sobs. “You’re right,” he said, his voice thick. “It. It’s not my fault, Your Grace.”

Yusuf’s gentle fingers wove into Nicolò’s hair and stroked. “That’s right, dearest,” he said, soothingly.

“Thank you for killing that man, Your Grace,” Nicolò rasped, jaw rubbing against Lord Yusuf’s chest hair.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” Yusuf answered, his hand squeezing the back of Nicolò’s neck.

“And thank you,” Nicolò added, in a whisper. “Thank you for...the other thing.”

“Oh, _Nicolò_ ,” Yusuf murmured, and pulled him into a sitting position. His hands cupped Nicolò’s face and pulled him into a kiss. Nicolò parted his lips willingly. This one was wetter and deeper than their first, suction and pressure, Yusuf’s tongue working against his own, Nicolò’s mouth vibrating with Yusuf’s moans. Nicolò tried clumsily to match his movements, at first, then stilled his tongue and let the nobleman plunder his mouth hungrily, his hair wrapped around Yusuf’s fingers, Nicolò’s hands clutching at Yusuf’s shoulders.

Lord Yusuf drew back, panting, and rested his forehead against Nicolò’s. “We’re quite sticky, my heart. Can I bathe you? Please?”

“I--yes. I’d like that. And…” Nicolò trailed off.

“Anything, dearest,” Yusuf rejoined, swiftly.

“Some food, please? I’m hungry.”

“Of course. I’ll have food brought down to us.” He pulled Nicolò in for a hug, one arm around his shoulders and one around his waist, avoiding Nicolò’s lash marks. Now that Nicolò knew he was leaving, he could admit to himself that being held like this, being pressed against Yusuf’s warm, firm body felt deeply, shockingly comforting. He knew it was just an illusion, though; a lie his body was telling him. He was not safe here. His soul was not safe here.

“Shall we?” Yusuf asked, pulling away. “Now that you’ve mentioned it, I’m starving, as well.”


	5. Burned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò runs away.

Yusuf led him into the hallway, their clothes unchanged, causing Nicolò to flush with embarrassment, sharply self-conscious of the smell of sex that clung to them. He directed Kabir and Suhana to bring them food and fresh garments, and then led Nicolò down to the lowest floor of the manor and into the baths.

The steam rising from the hot water enveloped Nicolò’s skin pleasantly upon entering. He paused to properly take in the mosaics covering the walls and floor, knowing he would probably not be back in this wondrous room again. Two huge basins occupied the center of the room, one for cold water and one for hot. The little tiles were every shade of blue, green, and purple, cool and swirling waves that crashed up to the edges of the recessed tubs and then poured in. The greens formed the primary colors on the walls, shapes hinting at natural structures but never fully resolving.

“This is beautiful,” Nicolò said, honestly. “Did you do this?”

“In part. I finished it. My parents started it.”

“I thought you said you _dabbled_ in tilework,” Nicolò accused him, absent-mindedly, and Yusuf laughed softly behind him. 

“I do, I do.” Yusuf came up behind him and fiddled with the bow at the neck of Nicolò’s dressing gown, which, like his tunics, had a fabric cut-out in the back to spare his skin from abrasion.

Nicolò was suddenly aware that he was about to be nude before Lord Yusuf for the first time. Infuriatingly, the thought made his prick twitch with interest. He reached back at his neck to undo the tie himself and stepped away, pulling his gown off swiftly in a bid to have some small control over this situation. He stepped over to the basket against the wall and dropped the soiled gown in, blushing at the thought of the washerwomen who would have to scourge his stains from the fabric.

Then, slowly, he turned.

Yusuf was frozen behind him, his lips parted, his eyes locked on Nicolò’s body. “Oh,” he breathed, and shook his head slowly, dazed. “No matter how many times I’ve imagined your body, I could never-- _never_ have visualized such perfection of form. And,” he swallowed. “Your _moles,_ Nicolò.” Nicolò’s hands moved instinctively to cover the moles near his navel and right hip bone. “No, please, don’t cover them up. I love them.”

The rapt, obsessive look on Lord Yusuf’s face was causing unwelcome heat to spool in Nicolò’s lower belly, and Nicolò had nowhere to hide except for beneath the water. He turned and crossed the tile floor to climb into the steaming basin, large enough for eight men to lounge comfortably. There was a smooth, deep ledge to sit on beneath the water. 

He heard Lord Yusuf moving around behind him, shucking his dirty sleeping pants and dropping them into the laundry basket to mingle obscenely with Nicolò’s gown, then collecting a tray of soaps and oils from the built-in shelves to Nicolò’s right. He set the tray on the edge of the basin and tapped Nicolò’s shoulder. “Sit forward,” he ordered.

Nicolò gulped and did as he was told, reminding himself that he was supposed to play the part of a wholly acquiescent captive.

The hot water lapped at Nicolò’s chest as Lord Yusuf slid down to sit behind him, his thighs bracketing Nicolò’s hips.

“Lean on me, darling. Let me bathe you. Relax, please. You’ve had a difficult day.”

Nicolò slid back a couple inches on the ledge until he felt Lord Yusuf’s semi-hard cock bump up against the cleft of his ass, then leaned back slowly, until his back made contact with Lord Yusuf’s front. 

“Oh, that’s so good, sweetheart. Doesn’t that feel nice? You can rest your weight on me, I won’t let your head slip under.” Lord Yusuf wrapped his left arm around Nicolò’s chest securely, in attestation to his words.

Nicolò heard someone entering the room through the entrance behind them. “Your victuals, my Lord,” said a feminine voice that Nicolò didn’t recognize. 

“Bring them here, please, Gianna,” Lord Yusuf answered, sliding the tray of soap away to make room for the food. 

“Will that be all, Sire?”

“Wait on us in the hall, please.”

Lord Yusuf lifted a drinking vessel, dripping with condensation, to Nicolò’s lips. “Drink.”

Nicolò took a sip. It was water, ice cold, and Nicolò suddenly realized how extremely thirsty he was, having had nothing to drink since the evening before. He took a larger gulp, and another, as Lord Yusuf slowly tilted the cup to keep water flowing into his mouth.

The contrast of the cold water flowing down his throat and the hot water enveloping his body felt incredibly luxurious. Coupled with the secure and grounding pressure of Lord Yusuf’s arm wrapped around his chest, Nicolò felt genuinely pampered. He allowed himself a moment to pretend to himself that he could have this, that he could let this be his life, treasured and spoiled and granted every luxury, doted on by a nobleman. He could forget everything he’d ever cared about and become Lord Yusuf’s spoiled pet.

Deep down, in the part of him that Nicolò never, ever listened to, the prospect was darkly, painfully tempting, and that was how Nicolò knew he must leave that very night.

Lord Yusuf set the cup down on the tray and brought a sugared date to Nicolò’s lips. Nicolò bit it in half, chewed, and swallowed, then took the second half into his mouth, being sure to catch Lord Yusuf’s fingers with the tip of his tongue. Yusuf fed him several more, and then simply held his fingertips in front of Nicolò’s lips, and he licked the syrup off them.

He could feel Lord Yusuf’s burgeoning erection pressing against his ass, but the Lord didn't do anything about it, just continued feeding Nicolò, cheese and cured meats and a few early-season strawberries, bite by tantalizing bite. When Nicolò shook his head, sated, Lord Yusuf switched to feeding himself. 

When he, too, was full, Lord Yusuf pushed the tray of food away and pulled the tray of oil and soap closer. He rearranged Nicolò so that they were both on their knees in the center of the basin, chins barely above the water, and Yusuf guided Nicolò to tip his head back so that Yusuf could lather and rinse his hair, fingers working against his scalp methodically and sending tingles throughout Nicolò’s body. They then returned to their first position, back to front.

Yusuf picked up a cake of soap that smelled of rose petals and began to wash Nicolò’s chest, starting in slow circles in the centerline of his chest, just above the waterline, and gradually widening the circles outwards, until the edge of the cake brushed against Nicolò’s right nipple, and he twitched in Yusuf’s arms.

“Oh,” Yusuf breathed, into his ear. He set the cake of soap at the edge of the basin and brought his index finger up to circle Nicolò’s right nipple. Nicolò didn’t bother hiding the hitching breath that coaxed from him, and Yusuf rubbed the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, soap slicking the skin. Nicolò squirmed in his seat between Yusuf’s thighs, conscious of how his ass rubbed against Yusuf’s cock, which was once more taking an interest in the proceedings.

There was no point in holding back, right now. In this room, in this moment, he was Lord Yusuf’s pet. For now, he was giving in. 

It was the only way out, he told himself.

Yusuf moved his left hand to play at Nicolò’s other nipple, and Nicolò groaned out loud, the sound echoing against the tile walls. He knew Gianna could probably hear them, but that was unavoidable. Yusuf nipped and sucked at the ear closest to his mouth and picked up the pace of the coaxing circles he was rubbing into Nicolò’s chest, sending sparks of heat and want shooting into Nicolò’s acquiescent body.

His own dick was getting hard again. Nicolò did not resist, this time, only tilted his head to the side to expose his neck to Yusuf’s teeth.

“Nicolò, Nicolò, oh Nicolò,” Lord Yusuf moaned, muffled against his neck. “You’re so perfect, Nicolò, so sensitive. Do you think you could come like this, just from me pinching and rubbing at your lovely tits?”

“I, I don’t know, Your Grace,” Nicolò admitted breathily, drawing his hips in a tight little circle within the confines of Yusuf’s lap.

“I’ve never...nobody has ever touched me like this.”

“Nobody has ever played with your nipples before, my sweet thing? Not even yourself?”

“N-no…” Nicolò stammered.

“Ah, fuck,” Yusuf groaned, and ground his hard cock against Nicolò where it was cradled by the sensitive cleft of his ass. “Stand up for me, darling, just for a moment.” Nicolò stood and clenched his hands with nerves, not knowing what Lord Yusuf was doing behind him. 

A touch at the very top of his crack spooked him, and Lord Yusuf stroked a hand along the side of his thigh. “Hush, hush, I’m not going to fuck you. This will just make it easier for me to get off.” 

He smeared a large handful of some sort of thick, heavy cream into the cleft of Nicolò’s ass, then pulled him back down into the water and into his lap, adjusting his cock so that it rested in the valley of slick he’d created for himself. He put one hand on either side of Nicolò’s ass cheeks and pressed them together experimentally, then groaned and humped against him. Nicolò could feel the cream sliding down his body, through the water, and trickling near his hole.

Lord Yusuf’s hands returned to Nicolò’s nipples, slick-slippery, and rubbed hard, pressing down into Nicolò’s skin. He let his answering moan fall from his lips and arched his back, pressing his ass even harder against Yusuf’s crotch, and Yusuf rewarded him with harsh, sucking bites into his neck that Nicolò was sure would leave bruises. 

Nicolò was aware he was enjoying this way too much, for a ruse. But just this once, in this carved-out moment of pretending, Nicolò decided he could use that to his advantage.

“Sire,” Nicolò panted. “Sire, please…!”

“Nicolò,” Yusuf groaned against his neck, grinding his hips up and against Nicolò’s ass and squeezing viciously at his chest. “Nicolò, I bet you can come like this, sweetheart. I can see how hard you are, beneath the water. Want to pinch your tits until you shake apart.”

“F-fuck,” Nicolò stuttered, his lips unused to profanity. “Your...your manhood, Your Grace, it--” Nicolò choked as Yusuf simultaneously pulled and twisted at his nipples. “You feel so big against my ass...s-so stiff…”

“Fucking _hell_ , the sound of your innocent voice--saying such things--” Yusuf wrapped both arms tightly around Nicolò’s torso, scratching his fingernails roughly over Nicolò’s left nipple, and jerked his hips forward so hard that Nicolò felt the hairs at the base of Yusuf’s cock brush up against Nicolò’s asshole.

That was it. That was what it took.

Nicolò’s mouth dropped open and he let his head fall backward against Yusuf’s shoulder as he shouted in surprise, feeling his cock jerk and come, untouched, from the brush of sensation against his hole and the feeling of the nobleman’s fingernails scraping at his chest.

“Hold my knees, Nicolò,” Yusuf commanded, his words running together in his rush to get them out, and moved Nicolò’s hands to his legs. He then used both his hands to press Nicolò’s ass cheeks together beneath the water and hump his cock between them at a punishing pace until he released a long, low groan and rested his forehead against Nicolò’s spine.

Lord Yusuf sighed a sigh of deep contentment and pulled Nicolò’s boneless body back against his chest, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I didn’t hurt your back, did I?” he asked.

Nicolò shook his head, bumping his cheek against Yusuf’s jaw. “Not that I noticed,” he answered, and then gestured at his front. “Chest,” he explained, succinctly.

Yusuf chuckled. “Yes, I suppose you had other parts of your body vying for your attention, didn’t you?” He stroked a fingertip softly over one of Nicolò’s swollen, puffy nipples, and Nicolò bit back a yelp.

Several minutes passed while they drifted, lazily, until Lord Yusuf once more picked up the cake of rose-scented soap. “Let’s do this properly now, hmm?”

When he’d washed every inch of Nicolò and then himself, he hauled himself up onto the basin edge behind him and pulled Nicolò backwards to lean against his shins. “Tilt your head back for me, pet,” he said softly, and Nicolò obliged him, resting the back of his head on Yusuf’s knee. Yusuf picked up a straight razor from the tray and leaned over Nicolò’s face, tilting his head side to side and examining his jaw. “You’re getting a bit scruffy, sweetheart,” he husked. “Let me clean you up.”

Nicolò shivered. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“You know,” Lord Yusuf said, thoughtfully, as he scraped the razor’s edge over Nicolò’s chin. “You do not always have to address me by title.” He cleared his throat. “You could call me Yusuf, sometimes.”

Nicolò stared up at the underside of the nobleman’s beard above him, his head blocking Nicolò’s view of the ceiling. He said nothing, afraid of the razor. Yusuf paused and held it away. “What do you think of that?” His empty hand brushed a thumb across the delicate skin at the corner of Nicolò’s eye.

“I...I don’t know, Your Grace. I will try?” That was a lie. Nicolò did not plan on sticking around for long enough to try. “It will feel very unnatural in my mouth, I expect. Disrespectful.” 

Lord Yusuf hummed in acknowledgement and finished shaving all the stubble off of Nicolò’s face.

When Nicolò was clean shaven, Lord Yusuf helped him out of the basin and rubbed more ointment into his back. “You’re healing very nicely,” he remarked. “I daresay you won’t have a scar on you.” He pressed a kiss to Nicolò’s shoulder and they dressed in clean clothes.

Then, they went for a late afternoon walk across the grounds, Nicolò’s wet hair coupled with the missing back of his tunic making his skin break out in gooseflesh. Lord Yusuf noticed him shivering and took them inside. 

“My apologies, Nicolò, but there are some things that I must see to. Will you join me later for dinner?” Nicolò nodded, and Lord Yusuf pressed a soft, brief kiss to his lips. “Excellent. I will see you in a couple of hours, then.”

In his room, Nicolò wondered what he should pack, if anything. He had two pairs of shoes, the ones he’d worn on his first day at the manor and the ones that had been given to him. He had no robes, no coat, no trousers, not even a dressing gown, now; only several pairs of hose and four unusually-cut tunics. 

Nicolò fussed about his room, looking for things that might be useful to him when he made his escape. He didn’t even have a bag to carry things in. He selected a blanket to take with him, the one that was easiest to fold, and resolved to leave via the kitchens in the hope of finding a waterskin to bring along.

He knew he was woefully underprepared, but he also knew he didn’t have a choice. If he didn’t leave now…

He thought back to the feeling of Yusuf’s teeth at his neck, his strong arms clamped around Nicolò’s chest.

If he didn’t leave now, he was afraid he wasn’t going to.

He paced for a bit, then flipped through his Bible, searching fruitlessly for wisdom to apply to his situation. _“Slaves, obey your earthly masters in everything; and do it, not only when their eye is on you and to curry their favor, but with sincerity of heart and reverence for the Lord.”_ Nicolò slammed the book shut and threw it on the bed.

A knock came at the door and Nicolò answered it. “His Lordship is ready to dine,” Suhana told him. He made to leave his room and follow her to the dining room, but Suhana did not step out of the way. “You know he could have anyone,” she said, bluntly, one eyebrow raised. “He’s wealthy enough. But for the past five months, he’s entertained no special visitors. Only you.” She gave him a pointed look. “Think on that.” Nicolò nodded, dumbstruck. She pursed her lips and escorted him the short distance down the corridor to the dining room.

Lord Yusuf was already there, wearing the clothes he’d donned after their bath, a circlet of woven vines resting upon his head. His face broke into a smile when Nicolò entered, as if he hadn’t seen him in days, and he gestured to the chair opposite. Nicolò’s heart clenched. He didn’t know how to get through this meal without giving something away.

Nicolò sat, and Kabir served their food and tea, as well as poured them each a goblet of wine.

Luckily for Nicolò, Lord Yusuf did not seem too intent on conversation. He glanced up at Nicolò constantly, though, and every time he did, his face would break into another charming, guileless smile that spoke only of simple joy. Nicolò did his best to return them, though he knew from exchanges with his Church brethren that most people found his face overly stoic and inscrutable. 

Nicolò did not sip his wine until he had a good amount of food in him, and then only slowly. It was very fine. He thought abruptly of the last time wine had passed his lips; at his most recent Communion, two days before he’d left the abbey with Father Matteo. To take Holy Communion now, in his current marred state, would be pure sacrilege. The thought sobered him considerably and reminded him exactly what was at stake that night.

Nicolò made sure to eat his entire portion of dinner, knowing he’d need the energy. Lord Yusuf looked inordinately satisfied at Nicolò’s clean plate. He leaned back in his chair, twirling his wine goblet, and struck up a story of how his parents had designed the baths and the tilework below. Nicolò tried his best to listen attentively, or at least look like he was paying attention. 

“Are you listening, darling? You look a little distracted.”

Nicolò flinched minutely. “My apologies, Your Grace. I’m afraid the wine is going to my head. I don’t hold my liquor well.” 

The corner of Yusuf’s mouth curled up indulgently. “My sweet innocent Nicolò, a lightweight? Say it isn’t so.”

Nicolò ducked his head. “Just so, Your Grace.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Will you join me in my chambers tonight?” Lord Yusuf asked, quietly, a hopeful tinge to his voice.

Nicolò knew he had to play this very, very carefully. Sleeping in Lord Yusuf’s bed would make escape impossible. He licked his lips nervously. “I...I wasn’t thinking tonight, but...tomorrow? I’d like to tomorrow?” he kept his chin low and glanced up through his eyelashes. Lord Yusuf looked happy enough.

“Alright, then,” he agreed. He stood up and bade goodnight to Nicolò with a kiss to his forehead.

When he was back in his room, Nicolò started to feel ill with nerves. There was nothing to do but wait until he thought his door might be unguarded, no preparations he could make once his sturdier shoes were laced to his feet and his chosen blanket was tightly folded. He set the Bible on top of the blanket, then moved it to his bedside table, then picked it up and set it on top of the blanket again. 

He considered trying to sleep for a few hours, but had no way to wake himself up, and had never developed the knack of awakening at a particular time like some of the other Brothers had.

Nicolò marked the time by the movement of the moon he could just barely see if he pressed his face against his bedroom window. When it was high in the sky, he tucked the blanket and the Bible into his arm and poked his head out the door into the corridor. 

Just as in the previous night, there was nobody there.

Nicolò strode swiftly down the corridor to the top of the stairwell, rolling his feet heel-to-toe against the flagstones so as to make as little noise as possible. He paused and listened for any voices of staff. There were none.

Nicolò rehearsed to himself what he would say if he was caught in the next few minutes. He woke up hungry. He was headed to the kitchens to see if he could scrounge something up.

He rounded the banister and walked down the stairway, trying his best to think of himself as an obedient house pet who just wanted a snack.

When Nicolò got to the ground floor, he stopped again. There was somebody coming in the opposite direction from the kitchens. He considered, fleetingly, pressing himself against the wall around the corner and hoping he wasn’t noticed, but he knew that would look incredibly suspicious if it failed. He straightened his spine. He had to stick to the plan. He was just hungry.

He rounded the corner and nearly ran into one of the scullery maids from the lunch he’d taken the day of his confession.

“Oh! Nicolò!” she exclaimed, startled, putting a hand to her chest. “What are you doing awake?” She eyed the blanket and Bible tucked into his elbow.

Nicolò scrambled to remember her name. “Just hungry, Hayfa. I woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep, thought I might find a snack and a place to read down here.” 

“Oh! Let me make you something and bring it up to you!”

He threw up his hands. “No, no, I hate the idea of making extra work for you.” 

She smiled at him, a sparkle in her eye. “It’s no work if it’s for you, Mister Nicolò,” she said, shamelessly.

Nicolò had to think fast. “Hayfa,” he said, hesitantly, and paused. “I don’t mean to scare you, but, well. I just don’t think Lord Yusuf would like it very much if he knew you were talking to me that way.” 

Her eyes widened in fear, and Nicolò felt guilt in the pit of his stomach. “Oh, I--I didn’t mean to--to make you uncomfortable, or to--to imply--”

He raised a hand again. “It’s alright. Just. Let’s not be seen together? Alone like this, I mean?”

She nodded hurriedly and shifted aside to walk past him. “Yes. Okay. Good night, Mister Nicolò.”

“Good night, Hayfa,” he whispered after her, as she scurried down the hallway towards the servants’ quarters.

Nicolò’s shoulders sagged with relief. He headed straight for the kitchens, but when he arrived, he didn’t have the faintest clue where the waterskins might be stored, or if there even were any in this part of the manor. He opened several cupboards, careful to shut each one slowly and carefully, wincing every time a hinge squeaked. Every moment that passed and he still hadn’t departed made fear wind tighter in his chest. Finally, he gave up, tucked several rolls and a hunk of cheese into the external pocket of his tunic, and made for the rear doors.

The grounds outside the kitchens were lit with many bright torches to keep animals away from the chicken coops. He crossed the courtyard as fast as he could without running, his entire body wired tightly with tension, until he was finally past the circle of torchlight and through the gate, and then Nicolò began to run. 

This, he knew, was his most dangerous moment, the moment he was still closest to the manor and had no plausible excuse for being outside. Terror nipped at his heels, and he pushed himself to run as fast as he possibly could, heading for the hills furthest from the main road. As the ground rose, his thighs and calves began to scream at him, protesting the incline. He had some tree cover now, so he slowed to a swift walk. The forest grew closer and more wild, and brambles began to tear at his skin and clothes. His tunic sleeve caught and Nicolò pulled at it; when it finally came loose, he nearly fell to the ground. He felt at the back of his arm, for it was too dark to see anything, and fingered a hole in the sleeve. He realized he probably should have packed a spare set of clothes.

It was very dark, beneath the thick roof of leaves, and Nicolò splashed through many puddles by accident, the wet and mud soaking into his shoes and leaving him with wet feet. The April night air was cold and damp.

He thought longingly of the hot bathwater from earlier in the day.

He thought of Communion bread and wine.

He thought of Father Spinello, hurting children.

He thought of Father Spinello, dead and bloated in his bed.

Nicolò hurried on.

* * *

When dawn broke, Nicolò was exhausted. He was covered in mud. He had fallen down a hill and slid. He successfully clambered back up it and recovered his blanket, which he wrapped around himself, but could not locate the dropped Bible. He’d trudged on.

When his feet began to bleed in his wet shoes, Nicolò leaned against a downed tree, ate the only bread roll that had remained in his pocket, and fell asleep.

He woke to a bright noon sun and the baying of hounds. He didn’t know which direction his original path was, but he could tell vaguely the direction the noises were coming from, and ran the opposite way. 

When he heard the hoofbeats of horses and the shouting of men, he knew it was useless. He couldn’t bear the thought of being run down like a slave. Even if that was what he was, he couldn’t bear it. So he turned to face the noises, pulling the blanket tightly over his shoulders, and waited.

A man he’d seen on his walks with Paolo and Suhana noticed him first, and blew his hunting horn. He trotted over on his horse and looked down on Nicolò’s pitiful form.

“Time to go back,” he said, not unkindly. Nicolò nodded. The man offered him an arm and swung Nicolò up and behind him, scooting forward in his saddle to make room. Nicolò wrapped his arms around the man and slumped against his back. “I am Marcello,” the man offered. Nicolò didn’t answer. The man knew very well who he was.

Marcello blew his horn again, three short blasts, and turned to take Nicolò home.

They left the forest early to avoid the thick brush and followed the slope of the hills down to take the road home instead. Other men on horseback joined them, some jeering at Nicolò, but he ignored them. Only two men caught his eye: Paolo, who looked outright miserable, and the kennel master, who had hanging out of his saddlebag a garment Nicolò recognized: his vestal robes from the abbey, still bloodied from his lashing.

Nicolò felt the strangest mix of emotions. Shame and embarrassment, to be caught like a quarry, like a hunted animal, by all these men. Terror, at what punishment awaited him when he returned to the manor. Relief, that his running was over, that he wouldn’t end up dying from thirst or exposure in the woods.

And finally, peace. That he had tried. He had tried and failed and that was that.

The road shifted upward beneath them, beginning to incline, and Nicolò knew they were approaching the manor. He did not lift his head from Marcello’s back until they finally slowed and stopped. They were at the front entrance. Nicolò realized with a jolt that he had not crossed through those doors since he’d entered the manor with Father Matteo. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Kabir was waiting for them. “Bring him around to the barn,” he ordered, and Marcello nudged his heels against his horse’s flanks and took him to the courtyard between the stables and the dairy shed.

Marcello dismounted and helped Nicolò off the back of his horse. He directed his eyes down at the cobblestones determinedly, not quite ready to face his consequences. Dried mud flaked off his ripped clothes and floated to the ground.

Marcello led his horse away. Nicolò waited, hunched over and staring at his blistered and bleeding feet.

Somebody was walking towards him, across the stones. They stopped a few yards away. “Look at me, Nicolò,” a hard voice commanded.

Nicolò looked up. Lord Yusuf’s face was so much worse than he expected. He did not look disappointed or sorrowful; he looked enraged, his face twisted. Nicolò saw, behind Lord Yusuf, in the center of the courtyard where the open-air forge sat, the Lord’s cattle wrangler, holding something in the forge with a pair of tongs.

“You ran,” Lord Yusuf spat at him, and Nicolò flinched. “And now look at you. What exactly did running get you, except wet and filthy?”

“Nothing, Your Grace,” Nicolò whispered, hoarse and ashamed.

“I can’t hear you. What did it get you, Nicolò?”

“Nothing,” Nicolò repeated. Kabir, the kennel master, and Martino came around from the stables and stood nearby, clearly awaiting orders. 

“Remove those rags and dunk him in the trough,” Lord Yusuf ordered. Martino stepped forward and dragged Nicolò over to the horse trough. His tunic, hose, smallclothes, and shoes were all stripped from him, leaving him naked, and then the kennel master was lifting Nicolò up bodily and dropping him into the water. He came up, spluttering, hair streaming in his eyes, bits of half-chewed straw clinging to his body. 

Martino wielded a stiff-bristled grooming brush and scrubbed the dirt harshly from Nicolò’s skin, then hauled him back out. He stood, dripping and completely naked, in a loose circle formed by Lord Yusuf’s men and Lord Yusuf himself, who looked no less furious. Nicolò pushed the hair out of his eyes and wrapped his arms around himself in a futile bid to feel warmer.

He didn’t know why he’d felt low and dirty after he’d sucked Lord Yusuf’s cock. This, right here, was the lowest a man could be: a hunted-down runaway; wet, naked, and wholly defenseless; with his last hope of dignity or self-determination stripped away from him absolutely.

Or so he thought, until Lord Yusuf spoke again.

“I see now that you are an animal, Nicolò, and I must treat you like an animal.” He gestured to the kennel master. “Get him on his knees and hold his arms back. Keep him still if it’s the last thing you do.”

Nicolò felt his arms grabbed and yanked behind him, and he sank to his knees. He did not need to be forced down. That was where he belonged, anyway. 

Lord Yusuf stepped forward, then, and crouched down, nearly of a level with Nicolò. His face changed, then, and Nicolò saw sorrow and regret pinch at his features. His eyebrows were drawn together. He looked bewildered. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this, Nicolò,” Yusuf whispered. He reached out a hand and touched Nicolò’s cold, wet chest, right over his breastbone. “I can’t believe you’re making me ruin your perfect skin.”

Then Yusuf stood up straight, and called to his wrangler at the forge, who pulled a red-hot metal brand out of the fire.

Nicolò recognized the brand. It was a simple, stylized sun: an open circle with six rays coming off of it. It was the same symbol that marked all Lord Yusuf’s sheep and cattle, burned into their rear flanks.

Nicolò did not struggle. He did not try to wrest free. It seemed...appropriate.

The cattle wrangler approached, and Lord Yusuf turned away.

The wrangler leaned in, tongs held out, and pressed the brand precisely into the center of Nicolò’s chest, at the top of his breastbone, where Yusuf had stroked him only moments before. Nicolò could feel his flesh sizzling, could hear steam hissing in his ears as water dripped from his wet hair and landed on the brand.

The searing pain ripped a scream from his throat, and he passed out.


	6. Collared

When Nicolò awoke, somebody had carried him to his bed in the manor, where he was lying on his back. His chest felt very sore, and something heavy was pressing against his neck. Suhana was leaning over him, dabbing ointment on his brand.

“I thought we were nearly done with this,” she tsked at him. “But then you had to go and…” she shook her head and turned away to screw on the lid and set the jar on the bedside table.

Nicolò felt ridiculously fragile. “Where is Yusuf?” he asked tearily. It seemed like the most important thing, right then.

To his shock, Suhana leaned in and slapped him clean across the cheek, then pointed a finger in his face. “ _Lord_ Yusuf, Nicolò! What is wrong with you!”

He stared up at her, mouth agape, dumbstruck. She rolled her eyes and turned around, muttering to herself.

Nicolò realized she was about to leave with a surge of panic, and he struggled to sit up. That’s when he noticed the chain running from down under his blankets up to...his neck. 

His hand flew up and felt at the heavy band of iron encircling his neck. He clutched at the chain, pulling a fistful of it into his lap and staring at it. “Suhana,” be begged, as she opened the door to leave. “Please. Where is Lord Yusuf?”

She glanced back at him. “That’s none of your concern, Nicolò,” she admonished him, and shut the door with a click.

_None of his concern…?_

Nicolò threw off his blankets to follow the chain and see where it led. He was still fully nude beneath the covers, he realized, and grimey from his ordeal, bits of grit pooling beneath his body in the sheets. The end of the chain was crudely screwed into one of the posts at the foot of his bed. 

Nicolò climbed off of his mattress, attempting to move his chest muscles as little as possible, for every time he flexed sent a flash of pain racing across his skin out from his breastbone. The soles and edges of his feet were very tender, forcing him to walk slowly. The length of the chain allowed him to look out his window and move to his chamber pot. He could sit at his little-used vanity, though Nicolò steadfastly refused to look in the mirror. He could even reach the door to the corridor, but the chain did not stretch to his sitting area. He could touch a toe to the edge of the low table in front of the loveseat if he stretched out his leg.

_“I see now that you are an animal, Nicolò, and I must treat you like an animal.”_

Nicolò realized with a jolt of clarity that he could have easily been chained up in the barn, instead, and that the fact he was instead back in his room was a sign of something.

A sign of what, exactly, Nicolò wasn’t sure.

Perhaps it just meant Lord Yusuf wanted him close, worried he’d run away again. Perhaps it meant he was through being patient with Nicolò, and wanted him near for the purpose of using his body, and the barn would have been an inconvenience.

Or perhaps it meant he hadn’t lost Lord Yusuf’s favor entirely, yet.

The trouble was, he had no way of knowing if he could not talk to the nobleman, and Suhana had made it perfectly clear that she was not going to fetch him.

Nicolò relieved himself in the chamberpot and then sat on his bed, shoulders hunched. The iron circle around his neck was heavy, with uneven edges that dug into Nicolò’s flesh. He could easily fit several fingers in the space between the metal and his neck. There was a hinge on the left side of his neck, and a heavy lock on the right, which was also where the chain attached. 

He climbed back under the covers, holding the chain away from his body so that it would not touch the burn on his chest, and when he laid on his back, he settled the links against the sheets several inches away so that he could not feel it touching any point of his skin.

Nicolò stared up at the ceiling, wondering how long he’d have to wait before Lord Yusuf would visit him. Hours? Days?

Nicolò thought of his Bible, one of his only sources of diversion since he’d arrived, abandoned on a mud-slick hill deep in the forest behind the manor. Perhaps an animal would eat the leather. The pages would decay and become part of the dirt.

He didn’t particularly want a new one, at that moment. But he thought he probably would.

Nicolò shut his eyes and drifted into sleep.

* * *

He woke to a loud rapping at his door that made him flail out against the mattress. His forearm hit the iron chain at his side and the overwhelming events of the past day rushed back into his memory, all at once. His gut clenched, and he pulled himself up into a sitting position. “Come in,” he called out.

A man he didn’t recognize entered, carrying a tray of food. He set it on the table in the sitting area and then turned to face Nicolò, hands clasped behind his back. “My name is Zaahir, and I am your new guard.”

Nicolò lifted his arm to brush his hair away from his face and winced at the pain that provoked in his chest. “What happened to Paolo?”

“He’ll still be around. There will be two of us at all times, now.” 

“Oh,” said Nicolò.

They regarded each other silently for a moment. “May I please see Lord Yusuf?” he attempted.

“I believe he intends to visit before the evening is over, but you didn’t hear it from me,” Zaahir responded. A surge of emotion crashed into Nicolò at that information, hope and relief, but terror, as well. He nodded, jerkily. Zaahir departed after pausing to light the lantern in the wall by the door.

Nicolò could not stay still, after that. He swung his legs onto the floor and jiggled them, his hands compulsively bunching his sheets and then smoothing them out repeatedly. He went to his window and unlatched it, swinging the panes open and out so that he could lean against the sill and watch the staff and animals move around the grounds. The courtyard with the open air forge was visible from here. It was no longer lit.

Nicolò touched the skin near the brand, tentatively. It was tender, but hurt less than he expected.

He would carry this forever, no matter what happened, for the rest of his life, however long that might be. The symbol of Lord Yusuf’s livestock.

The curl of heat in his gut that thought provoked barely even scandalized Nicolò. He was so weary. He did not think he had the energy to push such thoughts away, anymore.

He didn’t want to move closer to the thought, either. He just regarded it, quietly.

He stared out at the grounds for a long time, watching the work horses put away in the stables and listening to one of the kennel master’s hounds bark at some intruder or other. All the gates were pulled shut and locked for the night, the sky growing steadily darker. The air grew uncomfortably cool, and he pulled a blanket off his bed to drape over his shoulders, trapping the chain against the mostly-healed skin of his back.

He heard footsteps approaching in the corridor, and his heart sped up in his chest. The door latch clicked open behind him, and Nicolò turned, chain dragging on the floor, to see Lord Yusuf enter and swing the door shut behind him.

All his hope from earlier fled at the dark expression on Lord Yusuf’s face, leaving only abject terror. How could he think things might be okay? His legs shook beneath him, and he sank down to his knees, clinging to the blanket pulled around his body, the only protection he had, albeit slim. 

Nicolò bowed his head low, and trembled.

Lord Yusuf rounded the bed to stare down at him, but said nothing. Nicolò could see his shoes and nothing else. The anticipation and fear in his gut clawed at him, a wailing beast, and he began to rock back and forth, just slightly, just enough to comfort himself. He clenched his eyes shut, breaths coming faster, and waited.

Nicolò heard the bed creak as Lord Yusuf sat on it. “Oh, Nicolò,” he mumbled, voice muffled by something, perhaps his hands. “What am I to do with you?” He sounded so sad.

Nicolò felt a wave of guilt join the emotions churning in his body. Some small part of him knew that was absurd, that everything about this was on some level completely twisted and backwards, but that part of him was shrunk so small he could barely hear it. 

He wanted to comfort Yusuf. He did.

Nicolò opened his eyes and glanced up. Lord Yusuf had buried his head in his hands. Nicolò shuffled forward on his knees, his chain rasping as it dragged across the flagstones of the floor, until he could lean up against Lord Yusuf’s shin. He wrapped his arms and his blanket around the leg and relaxed against it, at the sheer comfort of a warm human body touching his own.

A hand came down to rest on his head and a thumb stroked at his hair, absentmindedly.

“How is your chest, dear one?” Lord Yusuf asked, softly, his voice clearer now.

“It hurts,” Nicolò admitted, rubbing his forehead against Lord Yusuf’s kneecap just below the hem of his robe. “But not too badly, Your Grace. Not as much as...not as much as one might think.”

“I had to do it, Nicolò,” Lord Yusuf responded, voice heavy with regret. “I had to make it clear to you who you belong to. Whose you are, now. In case--in case you ever leave again, and need to be returned to me.”

Moisture pricked at Nicolò’s eyes, and he nodded.

“Say you understand, Nicolò. That you understand you’re not God’s, anymore. You’re mine.”

“I understand,” Nicolò said.

“Are you telling me the truth, habibi?” Yusuf asked, sounding unconvinced.

Nicolò froze in fear, tensing against Lord Yusuf’s leg. “What does that word mean?” he asked, in a transparent attempt to change the subject.

“It means ‘darling.’” Yusuf reached down and gripped Nicolò’s chin in his hand, forcing his head back until Nicolò was looking up at Yusuf’s shadowed face. “Nicolò. Are. You telling. Me. The truth.”

“I don’t know,” Nicolò choked out, honestly. “I don’t know,” he repeated again, moaning it, and hot tears began to spill from his eyes. “I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me.”

Lord Yusuf’s other hand came down to wipe the tears off Nicolò’s cheek, but they continued to roll down. “Oh, Nicolò,” he said, sorrowfully. “Come up here, please come up here, sweetheart.” He leaned down and put his hands under Nicolò’s arms, hauling him up until he was sitting next to Yusuf on the bed, his chain pooling in the dip in the mattress between them.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore, Nicolò,” he said, wiping away more tears and tucking Nicolò’s hair behind his ears. “Really, I don’t.”

Nicolò nodded frantically. “But…?” he asked, through his tears.

“There’s no ‘but,’ darling, I promise you. I promise I’ll only hurt you if I see no other choice.”

Nicolò nodded again, feeling his chest tighten.

“Nicolò, sweetheart.” Lord Yusuf put his hands on either side of Nicolò’s shoulders and waited for Nicolò to meet his gaze. His eyes, his whole face radiated absolute earnestness. “Maybe I should have said this earlier. I thought it was clear. But maybe not; maybe I should have made it more obvious.” He licked his lips. “I love you, Nicolò. I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you at the harvest feast day, and having you here, under my roof, seeing so much more of you...it’s only made me love you more.”

Nicolò began to breathe in faster, short, gasping breaths, wet with his tears. He had no idea what to say to that. He felt lightheaded, dizzy, as if the room had begun to spin around him. 

“Sssh, ssssh,” Yusuf said, cupping his face and staring into his eyes worriedly. “I don’t expect you to say it back to me. Sssh, Nicolò, it’s okay, you have nothing to fear from me right now.” 

Nicolò nodded, but he couldn’t get control of himself. Yusuf stood up and sat on Nicolò’s other side, propping himself up against the headboard, and beckoned Nicolò into his arms. Nicolò let go of his blanket and clambered over to curl up sideways in Yusuf’s lap, his legs hanging over Yusuf’s left thigh, shifting until he was sure the hinge on his collar wasn’t digging into Lord Yusuf’s shoulder. When he settled, Yusuf began to rock him, slowly, back and forth.

The motion, combined with the feeling of Lord Yusuf’s arms wrapped securely around him, holding him to the smooth embroidered fabric covering his warm chest, soothed Nicolò, bit by bit. Eventually, his breathing steadied, and even his tears stopped.

“Are you better, darling?” Yusuf asked, gently.

“Yes,” answered Nicolò.

“I don’t want any more secrets between us, my heart. Are there any questions you have for me?”

A yawning void of not-knowing opened up beneath Nicolò, and he clung tighter to the arm wrapped around his front, even though it made the center of his chest hurt rather badly. “I--yes, so many, but--”

“Sssh, hush. Maybe that was too big of a question, hmm?” Nicolò nodded, relieved.

“Are you wondering what is to become of you now?”

Nicolò nodded again, and felt another wave of teary panic rise up and threaten to spill out of him.

“It’s okay, Nico, it’s okay. May I call you Nico, dear one?”

Nicolò nodded. Nobody had called him Nico since he’d left the family of his birth, but he didn’t mind the name.

“I want the same things I’ve always wanted, love. I want to take excellent care of you. I want you to be safe and warm and happy.” He pressed his lips to Nicolò’s temple. “I want to disassemble your innocence, one little piece at a time, and show you how rapturous carnal pleasures can be. I want you to feel at home here, to feel at peace, belonging to me.” Lord Yusuf kissed him on his temple again. “Ever since I learned you were working on mending, I’ve been trying to think of a job I can give you, did you know that?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“I don’t want you to be bored, Nico. I want you to enjoy your life here.”

Nicolò wondered what kind of job Lord Yusuf might give him.

“Your Grace…” he started, hesitantly.

“Yes? What is it, my heart? You can ask me anything.”

“Do you still...do you still want me to call you just Yusuf sometimes?”

Lord Yusuf squeezed him tighter against his chest, not seeming to care at the way the collar’s hinge dug into his skin. “Yes,” he answered, simply.

“It’s just, well. I thought maybe you didn’t, anymore, because…” he bit his tongue, suddenly unsure whether it was wise to finish that sentence.

“Because why?” Lord Yusuf prompted.

“Well, earlier. When Suhana came to put ointment on my wound. I called you Yusuf, and she…”

Nicolò paused for a long time.

“What did Suhana do?” Lord Yusuf asked, neutrally.

“Please don’t be mad at her, Your Grace,” Nicolò said.

“Nicolò, I cannot promise you that. Tell me, right now. What did Suhana do?”

“She, um. She slapped me.”

“I see,” Yusuf said, darkly.

“She just thought I was being disrespectful. She didn’t know you’d asked me to call you that. Please, please don’t be angry.”

“You know I’m not angry with you, right?” Yusuf asked, the question tender.

“Yes, but I--”

“Nicolò, Suhana works for me, not you, and I will deal with her as I please.”

“But--”

“Nicolò. Stop. Now.”

Nicolò clamped his jaw shut.

“Oh, Nico,” Yusuf sighed, after a moment of silence. “So soft-hearted. I love that about you, darling, really, I do. You’re such a good boy.”

Nicolò knew he should be worried about Suhana’s fate right now, but he couldn’t help the rosy swell of warmth in his heart at Yusuf’s gentle words.

Yusuf pressed another kiss to his temple and rested his lips there, humming softly.

“Yusuf…” he started, and felt Yusuf’s mouth form a wide, pleased smile against his face. “May I have some of the food on the table?”

Yusuf pulled back to look at him, and Nicolò turned his head to face him. “What do you mean? You haven’t had dinner?”

“I can’t reach the table,” Nicolò explained.

“Ah, Nico, you should have said something earlier! When was the last time you had something to eat?”

Immediately, Nicolò remembered huddling on the forest floor in the weak light of dawn, tree bark pressed against his back, digging in his pocket and coming up with the only bread roll that had survived his tumble down the hill. Eating it in its entirety, saving none for later, barely able to taste it.

He was afraid to tell Lord Yusuf of that moment, afraid to remind him of the extremely recent past in which Nicolò had, just briefly, gotten far away from him. The forest and the bedroom were very different worlds, in his head, and he did not think they should meet.

“I’m not sure,” he answered. Guilt at his lie coated his throat.

“I’ll bring the food over, darling boy. Up you go.”

Nicolò shifted out of Yusuf’s lap so that he could retrieve the tray of food and set it on the mattress. The stew was cold, now, but Nicolò barely noticed, he was so starving.

When Nicolò set down his empty bowl, scraped clean, Yusuf cupped his face in his hand and looked at him thoughtfully.

“You know, Nicolò…” his mouth pulled sideways, his eyebrows scrunched up, and his eyes slid over to the window and its view over the western courtyard. “I have been thinking. It is not entirely Suhana’s fault, what she did. I may have miscalculated.”

Nicolò shook his head, not understanding.

Lord Yusuf sighed, heavily. “What I did, in full view of everybody. I’m worried that it might have given the staff the wrong idea. I don’t want them treating you differently, besides being more careful to guard you at all times. I ought to have foreseen how the branding might have changed their view of you, I think.”

Nicolò considered his words. It made sense.

“I’ll speak to all the staff who might have contact with you and make it extra clear to them that they are not to speak down to you, and they are certainly not to touch you.”

Nicolò swallowed and nodded. He eyed the jar of ointment on his bedside table. “Does that mean Suhana won’t be applying my ointment any longer?”

“I think I’d like to take over that task, habibi.” Yusuf wrapped his hand around Nicolò’s own and rested them on his knee.

Nicolò felt his lips lift a little, at the corners. The prospect of seeing Yusuf every morning and every evening, Yusuf caring for his wounds tenderly…

“Do you like that idea, my heart?” Yusuf asked, smiling at him.

Nicolò ducked his head shyly and nodded. Yusuf pulled him in then, by his arm, and kissed him softly on the lips, his beard brushing Nicolò’s chin. Heat raced through Nicolò’s body and settled in his groin, and Nicolò sighed, softy. 

Yusuf smiled against his lips and lifted his other hand to cup Nicolò’s chin, and then he kissed him again, hungrily, his tongue firm and full of promise as it swept Nicolò’s mouth. Nicolò was starting to get hard, and he pulled away with a shaky exhale. “Yusuf,” he whispered, into the air between them.

At the sound of his name, Yusuf moaned and shifted both his hands to bury them in Nicolò’s hair on either side of his head, pulling him in and tipping his face so that Yusuf could plunder his mouth freely. Nicolò gasped against him, feeling his cock begin to swell between his legs. He did not try to pull away again, just let Yusuf take and take, until his whole mouth was buzzing and swollen and his chin and upper lip were burning from the scrape of Yusuf’s beard.

Finally, Yusuf pulled back, breathing heavily, and rested his forehead against Nicolò’s, his hands still fisting thick handfuls of Nicolò’s hair.

“I would take you, Nicolò. Right now.”

“I--I--”

“Sssh. I won’t. Not until you’re ready. How does that sound, my love?”

“I...um...I...yes. Yes, thank you, Sire. I’m sorry, I just…”

“Ssssh,” Yusuf shushed him, untangling one hand to put a finger to his lips. “It’s alright. There are other things we can do. I’d like to feel your thighs around me, darling. Can we do that? Can I get your inner thighs nice and slick for me and rub my cock against them? Does that sound like too much?”

Nicolò’s face felt very warm and his erection grew hard and needy at Yusuf’s words. His hand spasmed where it was resting on his thigh, and he felt the tip of his dick bob against his inner forearm, leaving a drop of wetness where his foreskin was beginning to pull back. “I, um, yes, yes, I think yes, Yusuf, please--” 

Yusuf groaned out loud and released Nicolò’s face to grind his palm against his crotch through his robes. “Lie on the bed, Nico, on your side. That’s a good boy.”

Nicolò turned and crawled, ignoring the soreness in his chest, until he was lying on the other side of the bed. The heavy lock on the side of his collar dug uncomfortably into his shoulder, and he fussed with the pillow until his head and neck were properly supported. He could hear Yusuf standing and moving behind him, shucking his clothes, and Nicolò thrilled at the realization that in a few short moments, Yusuf’s full, naked body would be pressed against his own, prone form for the first time.

Nicolò pushed at the length of chain until it ran off the bed and pooled with a series of heavy clinks against the stone floor.

Yusuf shuffled up behind him on his knees and stroked a hand over Nicolò’s outer thigh. “Bend your knee and prop your leg up for me, hayati.”

 _A new word,_ Nicolò thought, and did as he was told. He felt extremely vulnerable like this, but it was a hot, prickling thought that made him hyper-aware of the sweat-damp skin at the base of his neck beneath the iron and at the dark, wrinkled space between his balls and his asshole.

Nicolò could smell the medicinal scent of his wound ointment as Yusuf smeared a thick glob on the skin at the very highest point of his inner thighs. Yusuf stroked a slick finger over the seam of Nicolò’s testicles, sending a shudder throughout his entire body and forcing a breathy, surprised gasp out of his panting mouth.

Then Yusuf put the ointment jar aside and curled up, close, behind Nicolò, pressing the full length of his warm, muscled body to Nicolò’s back. Yusuf’s face was pressed not against Nicolò’s neck but lower, against his upper back, such that his hips were lower than Nicolò’s and his stiff cock bumped up against the underside of Nicolò’s buttocks.

Nicolò was surprised at how good all of Yusuf’s body hair felt against his skin; his beard, nuzzling Nicolò’s upper back, his chest and belly hair, brushing soft against his mid and lower back, the thatch of pubic hair that rubbed against the space where the underside of Nicolò’s asscheeks parted. Yusuf pressed a kiss to one of Nicolò’s faded lash marks and shifted their angles, slightly, pulling at Nicolò’s hips. 

“Straighten your legs out more, slide them back towards me. That’s right, exactly there. Good boy.” Yusuf reached down between them and adjusted his cock until it pushed into the slick, lubricated well of space at the apex between Nicolò’s thighs. His cockhead pressed against the back of Nicolò’s sack, sending a spark of pleasure down to Nicolò’s toes.

“Ungh,” Nicolò grunted, incoherently. Yusuf wormed his lower arm between the mattress and Nicolò’s body to rest his hand on Nicolò’s abdomen, and wrapped his upper arm securely around Nicolò’s lower belly. He brushed another exquisitely gentle kiss against Nicolò’s back.

“Cross your ankles, darling, make it nice and tight for me.” Nicolò obeyed immediately, and Yusuf groaned, long and low against Nicolò’s spine. “Fuck, Nico, I haven’t even started moving yet and I feel like I’m in heaven. I’m going to move now, pet.”

“Yes, Yusuf, please,” Nicolò whined.

Yusuf’s thigh muscles tensed against the backs of Nicolò’s, and he felt Yusuf’s ointment-soaked cock slide smoothly between his thighs, back and forth, and they both groaned at the pleasure of it.

“God, Nicolò. _Nicolò._ My perfect, beautiful boy. Your thighs are a dream, darling.” Every motion of Yusuf’s body rutting up against his own worsened the ache in Nicolò’s cock. He clutched at his pillow with his right hand and dug the fingers of his left into the back of Yusuf’s own, slotting his fingertips in between Yusuf’s knuckles.

“Yusuf. Yusuf. Feels so good,” he gasped.

“Yes, Nico, yes, fuck. Fuck, I love your thighs. I love your ass, I love your perfect body. You’re so good, Nico, so good like this. I can’t imagine--” his voice stuttered out on a loud moan as Nicolò clenched his thighs together, desperate to make it even better for Yusuf.

“ _Fuck!_ Nicolò! Fuck!” His hips sped up, slapping into Nicolò’s ass, the smacking, desperate sound filling Nicolò’s ears along with the stream of filth Yusuf was moaning.

“P-please, please touch me, please,” Nicolò begged, and Yusuf’s hand on his lower belly immediately slid down to fist Nicolò’s cock, jacking his foreskin up and down in time with the thrusts of his hips.

Nico felt unbridled, wild ecstasy shoot through him. His jaw fell wide open and he let out his loudest noise yet, twitching and coming in Yusuf’s soft palm. Behind him, Yusuf’s mouth also froze around a gasp, his spit slick lips sliding openly against Nicolò’s spine, and his hips thrust harder, several more times, until Nicolò felt hot, wet semen jet out of Yusuf’s cock, thick and copious against the underside of his balls.

They lay there, entwined and panting, curled up and sealed together by sweat and come, for several long minutes. Nicolò waited resignedly for the shame to arrive.

When it came, trickling in, it felt like a pale imitation of itself. Nicolò felt rather detached from it. The iron around his neck felt much heavier and more real to him.

“Yusuf,” he said, softly, and smiled a little at the answering, sleepy hum against his back. “You know I won’t run again, right?”

Yusuf’s arms tightened around him, and he pulled his face away from Nicolò’s back to answer. “I’d like so much to believe that, darling.”

Nicolò’s heart clenched in his chest.

“What can I do to earn your trust? I don’t. I don’t want to wear this forever,” he whispered, staring unseeingly at the wardrobe against the wall. The wall lantern by the door was guttering badly under the breeze from the still-open window. Nicolò shivered.

Yusuf pulled away then, fully, separating their sticky skin. Nicolò felt semen smearing backwards against his thighs as Yusuf’s cock left its home. He stretched down to the foot of the bed to grab the edge of a blanket, and pulled it up and over Nicolò’s shoulder.

“I won’t make you, sweetheart. Just for a little bit. Just until I feel safe again.” Nicolò nodded against the pillow, and then sighed happily when Yusuf laid back down and wrapped his arm on top of the blankets. 

“Will you sleep here tonight? With me?” Nicolò asked. He felt proud that his voice did not tremble.

“Would you like that?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Very much.”

“I will, then. I want a change of sheets, though, and I need to put more ointment on your brand after I wash my hands.”

Nicolò nodded again. “Okay. Could you put some on my neck, too? It hurts where the edges are rubbing up against me.”

“Of course, Nico. I’m sorry about that, love, I had to have it forged in a rush, you know, so it’s very rough.”

“I understand,” Nicolò replied around a yawn.

Yusuf stood, then, and closed and latched the window, and went to the door to speak with someone in the hallway. 

The quiet murmur of their voices lulled him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments have been feeding me so well, you guys. They mean so much to me.


	7. Choked

Nicolò awoke shortly afterward, when Lord Yusuf hoisted him up, one arm beneath his shoulders and the other looped beneath his knees, and held him to his chest so that the servants might strip the bed and change the grimey sheets. It felt wonderful, being cradled like a child, and Nicolò rested his face against one warm pectoral muscle and sighed happily. 

When Yusuf laid him back out on the sheets, they were pleasantly cool and free of grit. Yusuf arranged the pillows around their heads and moved the chain out of the way, and Nicolò drifted easily back into sleep, feeling Yusuf curled up behind him.

When he opened his eyes the next morning, he was lying on his opposite side, facing the window, and Yusuf was turned towards him, awake, and gazing at him with a thoughtful expression. The places where his body made contact with the bedroom air, unprotected by the blankets, was comfortable instead of chilly, and Nicolò wondered in the back of his mind if the weather had taken a turn for the better or if someone had tended the grate while he slept side by side with a nobleman.

“Good morning,” Nicolò whispered, and the corner of Yusuf’s mouth quirked up softly. It was a strangely wistful expression.

“Good morning, hayati.” He reached out to stroke Nicolò’s cheek, and Nicolò pressed his lips together. 

“What are you thinking about?” The question felt just a touch impertinent on Nicolò’s lips. “Your Grace?” he tacked on. “If you want to tell me?”

Yusuf hesitated.

“Am I mercurial, Nicolò?”

Nicolò frowned, slightly.

“Are my moods hard for you to predict? Or do you know what to expect from me?”

Nicolò’s heart rate picked up. The question felt like a trap. He swallowed around his fear.

“I...I wouldn’t say you’re, um. Hard to predict, Sire. No.”

“No?” Yusuf’s face looked intent, serious. Concerned.

Nicolò shook his head slightly against the pillows. “No, Your Grace.”

“Do I respond to you reasonably?”

Nicolò’s heart sped up further in his chest. “I--that is--”

“What I’m asking you, Nicolò, is--can you tell, in advance, how I will feel about something? That I will be happy when you are good, and unhappy when you are bad?”

Nicolò couldn’t disagree with that summary, and nodded, hurriedly. “Yes, Sire, that’s all true.”

Yusuf smiled that little wistful smile again, and Nicolò dared to hope that this line of questioning was over. He settled his hand on the side of Nicolò’s face and stroked his temple softly with his thumb. Nicolò’s eyes drifted shut. Against all logic, he felt soothed by the touch.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf whispered, several minutes later, his thumb stilling, and Nicolò’s eyes fluttered open. The thoughtful look was back on his face, and there was a little vertical line between his eyebrows.

“Your Grace?”

“Why did you leave? You can tell me. I won’t be mad.”

Hot tears of fear sprang immediately to Nicolò’s eyes, and he blinked them away rapidly.

“Oh, hush, Nicolò, hush, it’s okay,” Yusuf entreated. “Darling, please. Please. I told you you were safe with me last night, and you were, weren’t you?” Nicolò nodded, trying mightily to keep his face from crumpling. “You can tell me, sweetheart, I promise. I promise I just want to know.” 

He lifted his hand to stroke Nicolò’s hair back, a long, soothing caress from his forehead, over the crown of his head, down to where the ends of Nicolò’s hair brushed his shoulders, and then down Nicolò’s arm, all the way to his fingertips. Then he repeated the motion, slowly, gently, twice more, and Nicolò settled.

“I won’t hurt you, baby,” Yusuf whispered, and despite everything, Nicolò believed him, somewhere down in his chest.

“I…” Nicolò started, and then took a long, deep breath, letting it out slowly. Yusuf nodded, encouragingly, a smile gracing his lovely lips, dimples indenting his cheeks lightly beneath his close-cropped beard. “I am afraid of who I am becoming, Your Grace. I don’t...I don’t recognize myself, most of the time, anymore.” Yusuf’s smile had drifted off his face, and now he just nodded at Nicolò to go on, his facial expression gentle and understanding. “I just...felt myself changing, and I was scared. Scared to keep changing and...becoming someone else.”

“And now, darling?”

“I won’t run again,” Nicolò said in a rush, desperately. “I won’t, I won’t.”

“I’m so glad to hear it, my love, but how do you feel? Are you still scared to change?”

Nicolò thought in silence, and Yusuf waited patiently, continuing to lay long, gentle strokes over Nicolò, from his forehead, down his hair, all the way down to the blunt and lightly calloused fingertips of his right hand where it was resting on the sheets between them.

“I don’t know,” Nicolò said. “I’m not--as scared, I think?” He remembered his thought at the open window the evening before, the surprising heat in his gut at the thought of carrying Yusuf’s mark forever. “I think that I. That maybe I have decided that there is no point in fighting it.”

“Oh, my darling boy,” Yusuf murmured, and pulled Nicolò’s hand to his mouth so that he could kiss each fingertip in turn, sweetly. “I’m so glad to hear you say that. I couldn’t bear to lose you again. You’re everything to me, my precious Nicolò.”

Yusuf scooted in closer, then, so that he could lean forward and press a gentle, chaste kiss against Nicolò’s lips. “Which reminds me, darling. I should reapply your ointment, and then I need to make my rounds with all the staff, clarify to them that they are not to touch you or talk down to you. That may take most of my day.”

Nicolò nodded in acquiescence.

“Tell me, sweetheart, how did the staff treat you before yesterday? Were there any problems?” Nicolò shook his head. 

“Here, let me go down the list. Who have you interacted with?”

Nicolò opened his mouth and hesitated. Was he putting anybody in danger by naming them?

“Paolo was fine. Suhana was fine, before yesterday. They never mistreated me.”

“Were they kind to you, though, Nicolò?”

“Well, I--”

“Nico, pet, whatever it is, you can say it. No more secrets, remember?”

Nicolò huffed a little, distressed. “I don’t want to get anybody in trouble, Sire.” He struggled up into a sitting position, wincing at the tenderness in his chest, and Yusuf sat up as well, turning his body to face Nicolò’s.

“Nicolò, please. I know how to treat my staff.” Yusuf’s voice took on a hard edge. “I am not to be _managed,_ my heart. This is important to me. Be honest.”

“Yes, Sire, I’m sorry, Sire.” Nicolò looked down at his chain, then, and poked a finger through one of the links, fiddling with it. “They were perfectly proper to me, just, well, aloof, I guess.” Yusuf frowned slightly and nodded.

“Who else have you spent time with, since you’ve been here?”

Nicolò licked his lips nervously. “I’ve met several people roaming the grounds, but I don’t even remember most of their names. Very brief interactions.”

“Alright. Who else?”

“One evening, someone who wasn’t Paolo came to build the fire in my grate. I think her name started with an M or an N. She told me the story of how she used to roll in soot on purpose when she was a child. She was kind and funny.”

When Nicolò glanced up from the loops of the chain, Yusuf was gazing back at him intently. Studying him. 

“Who else?” Truly, Nicolò felt, in that moment, that he could hide absolutely nothing from this man.

Nicolò pulled his knees up to his chest beneath the blanket and hugged them. “I’m scared, Sire, I’m sorry.” His voice wobbled unsteadily. “I know you told me not to be, but I am.”

Yusuf leaned in and brushed a lock of hair off Nicolò’s forehead, then did not pull back. He angled his head so that he could look up and into Nicolò’s eyes. “Of me, darling?”

“N-oo, well--a little,” he admitted shakily. “But mostly _for_ someone else... She wasn’t unkind to me.”

Yusuf’s eyes narrowed perceptively. “I see. Was she perhaps a little too kind?”

Nicolò nodded jerkily. “She didn’t mean anything by it. She and her friend, they were both very friendly, just teasing Paolo and me over lunch one day. And then I ran into her later, and...” Nicolò’s hand spasmed nervously where it was clutching the covers over his knee. “She didn’t touch me,” Nicolò said, desperately.

“Oh, Nicolò, sweetheart. I can see why you might think I’d be upset, but if she didn’t touch you, who am I to blame someone with a crush? It only means this servant of mine has eyes, dearest.”

Nicolò sighed with relief. “That--that’s good, Your Grace. That makes me feel better.”

“Is it Hayfa, the scullery maid?”

Nicolò reared back in surprise. “How--?”

“Darling, this manor and all the people in it are my responsibility. It’s my job to know everything. You don’t need to worry for her.”

“Thank you, Sire,” responded Nicolò, as his shoulders began to relax by degrees.

“Unless…” Yusuf glanced up at the ceiling and tapped his lips thoughtfully. Nicolò’s heart seized in his chest and began beating as fast as a rabbit’s.

“Unless what, Sire?”

Lord Yusuf tilted his head to the side, then, and regarded Nicolò with a heated expression. His eyes were half-lidded, obscured by thick lashes, and his mouth was curled just so, as if in good humor. When he spoke, however, the tenor of his voice was swollen with warning. “Unless, pet, I have reason to be jealous?”

Nicolò started shaking his head so quickly and so fervently that he could almost hear his brain rattling in his skull. “No. No, no, no. Certainly not.” He folded his legs to the side, then, sliding them beneath the iron chain so that he could lean forward and reach out for Yusuf, suddenly craving his embrace. His hands hovered over the Lord’s, not touching. Yusuf’s smile had grown softer, but he didn’t move toward Nicolò. “You don’t. I swear it to you. I’m yours.” He swallowed. “All yours. Please believe me.”

Yusuf studied him a moment more, then, blessedly, turned his hands over atop the blankets and clasped Nicolò’s in his own. He brought Nicolò’s knuckles up to his lips, and pressed them against his mouth, holding them there. Nicolò swayed forward, drinking in the physical contact and hoping dearly that it meant Yusuf had accepted his assurances. 

“I want to believe you, baby. I do,” Yusuf murmured, earnestly, against the backs of Nicolò’s hands.

“Let me show you,” Nicolò begged. “If you don’t believe my words...believe my body? Please.”

Yusuf did not move his lips, but he lifted his eyes up to Nicolò’s, then, his eyebrows drawn together, his deep irises liquid pools of raw emotion. He did not speak.

Nicolò squeezed the soft hands that cradled his own. “Please. Please let me show you.”

Still, Yusuf did not speak, but to Nicolò’s shock, the Lord’s eyes began to well with tears, and fear tore deeper into Nicolò.

“Please,” he begged. “You must believe me. I’m yours, I swear it. Yusuf, please believe me, please let me show you. I want to show you.”

Yusuf let go of Nicolò’s hands, then, and shut his eyes, pressing his lips together. A tear streaked out the corner of one eye and dispersed into the edge of his beard.

Nicolò felt frantic desperation seize him, then. He didn’t know what would happen if he couldn’t get Yusuf to understand that Nicolò was telling the truth, but he felt certain it was more likely to be bad than good, and what’s more, he couldn’t stand the look of sorrow pulling at the lines of Yusuf’s handsome face. He struggled out from beneath the covers and crawled right up to Yusuf and rested his hands, tentatively, on either side of Yusuf’s neck, feeling his lovely curls tickle the backs of his fingers.

Yusuf shuddered with pleasure at Nicolò’s touch and wrapped his arms around Nicolò’s torso, then, tilting backwards and pulling Nicolò with him, the chain slithering across the covers alongside them, until they were both lying in the wrong direction on the bed, Nicolò lying on top of Yusuf. Suddenly, Nicolò was extremely aware, in a way he hadn’t been since he’d woken up, that he and Yusuf were both fully nude, a thought that occurred to him at exactly the same time as he leaned down and pressed his lips against Yusuf’s, gracelessly, for no other reason than that it felt like the thing to do in that moment. 

Yusuf moaned, then, and opened his eyes, staring up at Nicolò and radiating a potent mix of uncertainty and lust and hope. “Want to believe you, Nico,” he croaked. 

“What can I do?” Nicolò whispered. “Tell me what to do, please,” he said, searching Yusuf’s eyes. “I want to make you feel good.” He could feel blood rush to his groin and stir his cock where it was pressed against Yusuf’s hip, spurred on by the boldness of his words. 

Yusuf moaned at that, and one of his hands slid up from where it had been clasped at Nicolò’s waist, tangling in his hair and pulling him down into another kiss, this one deep and lasting, and Nicolò tried to press his sincerity and his fervor into Yusuf’s mouth with his tongue.

Yusuf pulled him back, finally, fisting his hair and gasping hotly against Nicolò’s face. “Want your mouth, hayati. Fuck, I want it so badly. Would you give it to me, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Yusuf, yes, please, let me show you!” Nicolò felt on the verge of tears, himself.

“Alright, darling, alright. You’re going to be okay. Let me move you, hm? I want to make it nice and easy for you, baby.” Nicolò nodded, Yusuf’s gentle words combining with the aroused anticipation curling in his gut to harden his dick further. 

Yusuf pushed at his shoulder, and Nicolò rolled off, shoving the chain aside when his forearm pressed into it. He watched Yusuf roll off the bed and stand a few inches away from the mattress, his flushed cock jutting out proudly. He crooked a finger and Nicolò got on his hands and knees to crawl closer, trying to ignore the pain emanating from his brand as his chest muscles flexed.

“I don’t want to hurt you, dear heart, I don’t want pressure on your brand. And I also don’t want to choke you too roughly.” Nicolò sat back on his haunches and nodded, waiting for instruction. “What I want you to do is lie down, on your back, with your head hanging off the edge of the bed, right here where my cock is waiting for you.”

Nicolò immediately rolled over, sideways across the bed, kicking his chain out of the way, and straightened his body out. He wiggled a little closer to the edge until his head was hanging off the bed, but the backside of his collar dug terribly into the crest of his shoulders and the base of his skull in that position, so he shifted back onto the bed a bit more until his head was tilted back over the edge but not hanging, and the discomfort of his collar was substantially lessened.

“How’s that, Nico? Comfortable?” The room was still a pleasant temperature against his bare skin, and Nicolò could see from this position the glow of the grate against the floor. Yusuf’s cock bobbed a few inches from his face.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Nicolò responded, admiring the way the dark fur of Lord Yusuf’s lower thighs faded away smoothly into the hairless skin of his hips. His collar still dug into his skin around the back of his head, but he didn’t particularly care right now, surprised by his own eagerness to taste the bead of liquid he could see welling out from the tip of Yusuf’s dick.

“Even with this ugly collar concealing it, my love, your throat is a vision. It’s a lovely, straight line, now, perfectly laid out for me.” Nicolò closed his eyes and relished the sound of Yusuf’s deep voice rolling out over and above him. A tapered finger caressed the strip of bare skin right beneath the collar, and then right above it, below Nicolò’s chin, and a shiver ran down his body to his toes, raising gooseflesh along his forearms. He clutched the sheets beneath his hands and sighed, basking in the soft touches.

“Open your mouth, my sweet Nico.” Nicolò obeyed. “That’s my good boy,” Yusuf purred, and Nicolò felt another shiver roll down his body, pebbling his nipples. He could feel his cock begin to throb between his legs. Yusuf kept one hand on his throat, resting on the collar, his thumb and littlest finger making contact with Nicolò’s neck, and with his other hand, grasped his shaft at the base and guided the head of his cock into Nicolò’s parted and waiting mouth.

The flavor of Yusuf’s precome bloomed on Nicolò’s tongue, and he moaned aloud, startling himself. Unbidden, the words he’d spoken in Yusuf’s reception hall, long ago and far away, echoed in his ears. _“I am not--I am not a whore.”_ Nicolò shoved them away, ruthlessly, and focused on covering his teeth with his lips, on the sensation of smooth skin, wet and hard and hot, sliding though the O of his mouth and deeper, nudging at the back of his throat. 

“Nico,” Yusuf spoke, shakily, from above him. “I will try to remember to let you breathe, dear heart, but if I don’t…” He pulled out then, leaving Nicolò’s mouth unpleasantly empty. “Give me your hand, hayati. _Good_ boy.” Yusuf placed Nicolò’s hand so that it was curled around the back of Yusuf’s bare thigh. “If you need to breathe, tap my thigh, yes?”

Nicolò held his head and his hands still, but he couldn’t help squirming his body against the sheets a little, at that. “Yes, Sire.”

Then, finally, Yusuf’s dick was back in Nicolò’s mouth, and then further, further, pressing into his throat and holding there. 

“God! Nico! _Fuck_.” Yusuf jerked back until just the head of his cock was in Nicolò’s mouth, and then pushed forward again, slowly, further this time, until Nicolò could no longer draw breath through his nostrils and the tip of his nose was pressed against the the delicate, hairy skin of Yusuf’s testicles. He pulled back again, leaving Nicolò with just the head, and Nicolò drew in a shaky breath. 

“I’m going to thrust now, darling, and I’m quite certain I won’t last long at this rate, so you should expect to feel me come down your throat in short order, as well.” Yusuf’s hands shifted until he was bracing himself with a grip on Nicolò’s collar, one hand curled around the hinge and the other around the lock. He slid the length of his cock back into Nicolò’s mouth, so slowly, and it seemed to take longer, this time, to push all the way in, a sweetly torturous invasion of his throat that didn’t cease its encroachment until Nicolò’s nose was not just brushing Yusuf’s balls but mashed up against them. 

Unthinkingly, he tried to inhale, but of course there was no air to be had, and he gagged and choked around the erection blocking his airways, and Yusuf pulled away hastily, all the way out.

“Nico!” Yusuf chided from above him. “You’re supposed to tap me if you can’t breathe! Maybe we shouldn’t do this…”

The admonishment stung. “No!” Nicolò rasped, wetly. He wasn’t ready for this to be over, couldn’t bear the thought of failure right now. “Please, I’ll try harder next time. Sire, please.”

“Nico…” Yusuf sounded reluctant, though Nicolò noted that his hands hadn’t moved from their positions on his collar, and he took that as encouragement.

“Yusuf,” he entreated, softly. “I want to try again. I’ll do better. Please.”

“Oh, darling. Whatever did I do to deserve you?” Yusuf tilted and shifted his hips until his bobbing erection met Nicolò’s lips again, and then he was pushing in, and gratitude surged in Nicolò’s chest that he still had the opportunity to assuage Yusuf’s jealousy and give him pleasure.

This time, Yusuf did not push slowly and hold still, but pumped in and out with steady movements, his cock filling Nicolò’s throat for brief seconds at a time, leaving Nicolò the ability to draw in air during the moments the spit-slick swell of his cockhead rubbed against Nicolò’s tongue. “Oh, Nico, Nico, my Nicolò. You--feel--so--good. So good like this. So good for me. Never--never should have doubted you.” His fingertips shifted where they were in contact with Nicolò’s neck, and he could feel the edge of the bed beneath his neck dip ever so slightly where Yusuf was leaning his weight against his hands, bracing himself and pinning Nicolò down by his collar. 

“Fuck! Nico. I knew--knew you were mine. I knew it, pet. God! Your throat, Nicolò!” Nicolò groaned helplessly in his chest, and Yusuf’s motions sped up, forcing his cock in and out of Nicolò’s throat at a steadily rising pace, and Nicolò could only focus on breathing carefully and deliberately during brief little respites, all his attention on not gagging, not tapping, being good, being a wet warm space for Yusuf’s dick--

He was distantly aware that his hips were moving of their own accord, humping the unsatisfying air above him.

Yusuf shoved in, particularly deeply, and Nicolò’s hand on the back of his thigh squeezed and fluttered on instinct, and then Yusuf’s dick was popping out of Nicolò’s mouth with a sad, wet sound. He felt so frustrated he could cry.

“Please don’t stop,” he rasped. His throat felt raw and abused, but he didn’t care. “I know you don’t want me to choke, but I don’t care. Please don’t stop. ‘S too good.” One of Yusuf’s hands left his collar, then, and carded gently through the hair at the side of Nicolò’s head. 

“Oh, my love,” Yusuf whispered. “You are a precious gift, indeed. Alright, baby, alright. You can choke, it’s alright.”

Then Yusuf was guiding himself back into Nicolò’s mouth, past his raw lips, and his hands were back at Nicolò’s collar, pinning him to the bed, and if he’d thought, before, that his throat had been used--the pace Yusuf set now put paid to that notion. His eyes streamed, his nose ran, and Yusuf fucked his mouth harshly.

“Out of--all the faces--in the world-- _god!_ Yours is the only one I ever want to fuck--again. You’re, you’re perfect for me--Nico, so perfect--”

Now that Nicolò had permission to choke, he did not try nearly so desperately to suppress the coughing and retching sounds that twisted out of his throat as Yusuf slammed his hips forward and shoved his length past Nicolò’s airways, as his lungs tried to compensate instinctively for the brutal invasion. The sounds of Nicolò’s struggle didn’t make Yusuf stop this time--if anything--

“Fuck, Nico. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Nico wondered if it was possible to come just from the sound of Lord Yusuf chanting profanity. “So good, good boy, my good boy, mine, Nico, mine, mine, mine, _mine_ \--” and then Nicolò felt Yusuf’s hand curve around his neck, pushing the collar’s top edge up hard and rough against the underside of his jaw, and cup the bulge of Nicolò’s throat where Yusuf’s cock was distending it. “I’m coming, Nicolò, I’m coming, fuck--” He stayed there, hips pulsing and jerking, and moaned, wordlessly, loud and long, curving his body in a bow over Nicolò’s upper body and blocking out the morning sun. 

Nicolò’s body spasmed, desperate for air, and Yusuf pulled out and away, leaving Nicolò spluttering great wracking coughs despite himself. With every cough, he could taste Yusuf’s seed on the back of his tongue.

When he finally pulled himself together and sat up, blood rushing out of his head, Yusuf was waiting for him with an expression of adoration and a drinking vessel of room-temperature water that tasted fantastic. Nicolò drank the whole thing, and then found himself being pulled up into the circle of Yusuf’s arms and leaning against Yusuf’s chest where he was propped up against the pillows and the headboard.

One of Yusuf’s hands ghosted over Nicolò’s lower belly, and he whined, hoping against hope that Yusuf would touch him _there--_

“What do you want, lover?” Yusuf murmured against his ear. “Can you use your words for me, darling boy?”

“Want--please--want--”

“That’s right, baby, keep going.”

“P-please touch m-me--”

“You first, darling.” Nicolò shook his head, vehemently. It was senseless, but he couldn’t, couldn’t touch himself, had spent fifteen years refusing self-abuse and this--he couldn’t make his hand--

“Want to see it, Nico. Be a good boy for me, won’t you?”

“Sire, _please_ ,” Nicolò moaned, piteously. 

“Oh, I see. My poor, wretched boy. How about your nipples, darling? Reach up and play with those.”

Nicolò’s hand that was not wrapped around Yusuf’s forearm crept to his chest, and he tugged first at one nipple, then the other. His foreskin had pulled back completely, and at the sharp feeling of pleasure bursting in his chest, his cockhead dribbled another spurt of precome, dripping onto Nicolò’s left thigh.

“That’s right. That’s my good boy.”

Then Yusuf moved his right hand, wrapped it around Nicolò’s shaft, and began pumping him firmly and without preamble.

A roaring tidal wave of pleasure appeared in the distance, traveling very fast, unavoidable and certain, and Nicolò squeezed his nipple between his thumb and forefinger and the tidal wave grew taller, closer, louder, and he was turning his head and sealing his mouth against Yusuf’s and _fuck!_

Nicolò’s orgasm smashed into him, knocking him totally off balance and pulling him under until he was tumbling and swirling in ecstasy with no notion of up or down, his hips humping animalistically up into Yusuf’s fist. His mouth was frozen and insensate where his jaw had fallen open in a silent scream against Yusuf’s mouth, until, finally, he crashed back into solid ground and the wave receded, leaving him reeling, dizzy, and dumbstruck.

He tried, numbly, to orient himself. He was half-sitting, half-lying in Yusuf’s arms. Yusuf was pressing kisses into the hair at the back of his head. Yusuf’s right hand, and Nicolò’s thighs and belly, were coated in rapidly drying semen. The chain was still attached, links pressed against his right shoulder before the length of it dropped off the bed. His throat was very sore, almost worse than his chest, and he was quite hungry.

“Breakfast?” he croaked. His voice sounded utterly wrecked. “And a washcloth?”

“Of course.” Yusuf got out of bed and cleaned his hands at the washbasin before poking his head into the hallway and ordering food brought up to them. 

Yusuf cleaned him up gently, they ate their food in bed, and then Yusuf washed his hands again before applying ointment to Nicolò’s chest. Nicolò felt deeply tired, even though he estimated that he couldn’t have woken up any more than two hours earlier. 

“You look ready for a nap, hayati.” Nicolò nodded. He still needed to ask what that word meant. “I really do need to go see to the staff, now. Someone will bring you your midday meal, and I’ll be back in time for supper. You rest.”

Nicolò curled up beneath the covers, his wrists bent against the hem to prop the blanket up and away from his brand, and tried his best to think about nothing at all.


	8. Infection

Nicolò dozed, half-awake, for nearly an hour, by his estimation. When he could not bear to be horizontal any longer, he stood on tender feet and opened the doors of his wardrobe. To his surprise, it was completely bare, the tunics he’d left within removed. The drawers were likewise empty.

Nicolò crossed over to the vanity and the large, beautifully framed silverwrought mirror that hung just above it. He’d avoided his reflection as much as possible during his time here, but right now, he wanted to know.

He was a touch pale, especially around his lips. He leaned in closer. The lower lip had a bright red line down the middle of it, where it had split open as he’d serviced Yusuf’s cock. The bags under his eyes were no surprise; he’d had those even as a child. He didn’t look especially clean; he could not detect any smudges of dirt on his skin, but his hair looked greasy and tangled, not to mention the filth on his stomach and thighs. He fingered the wooden handle of the hairbrush atop the vanity and slowly brought it up to his head, watching his eyes narrow and his face crease in pain from the flex of his chest muscles. 

He averted his eyes, then, and focused on working out the tangles with as much spareness of motion as possible. The thought arose from somewhere innocent and stupid, low in his stomach, that it might be nice if Lord Yusuf was doing this instead. He frowned at the thought, but it didn’t go away, merely circled him, drawing his attention away from the faint, indignant squawking of a rooster far off in the distance.

He swallowed. Well. Maybe it _would_ be nice if Yusuf brushed his hair.

Maybe he would ask him. 

Yusuf would probably like that. 

_“Do you know what to expect from me?”_ Nicolò tried to remember all the nuances in Yusuf’s tone of voice when he’d asked that question earlier, and shivered, unsure if he was feeling fear or lust or something else entirely.

He set the brush down, then, and finally let himself pay attention to all that was reflected back to him below his chin. The collar looked as heavy and ugly as it felt, a hasty piece of ironwork indeed, and it pulled at the skin on the right side of his neck where the chain stretched back behind him to his bed post. 

He could see unexpected bright red smudges on his skin starting beneath the collar on the left side of his neck and trailing out halfway across his shoulder. He leaned in to examine them curiously and tried to remember what could have caused such marks. He’d never seen them before.

The most distinctive one was two misshapen ovals, curling in towards each other, the inner edges of red darker and more jagged than the outer. The edge on top, closer to his back, had a crookedness to it that reminded Nicolò of…

Oh. Yes. These were the bruises Yusuf had sucked into his neck, only two days prior, while he’d cradled Nicolò against him in the baths and tormented his nipples. It made Nicolò think of something else Yusuf had said to him.

_“Maybe I should have made it more obvious… I love you, Nicolò.”_

Nicolò swallowed, and finally turned his attention to the mark of the sun branded into his sternum.

The skin where the iron had touched him directly was not especially changed in color, but the texture of it was wrinkled and stiff-looking beneath the oiliness of the ointment smeared on top. The circle in the center was swollen in two places with round blisters, one near the center and one near the edge. 

All around the edges of the mark, bordering each of the six rays, his skin was dark pink, almost red. Nicolò brushed a fingertip over the skin and hissed in pain. It felt warm to the touch, warmer than he’d expected.

The rest of his body was the same as he remembered, or at least the front of it was. At the bottom of the mirror, dried come darkened the faint sprinkling of hair that trailed over his soft stomach, from his navel down to his limp cock nestled in a thatch of pubic hair, which was riddled with clumps of semen. The tops of his wide thighs--also sporting evidence of his sin--were the lowest part of his body he could see, unless he stepped onto the low stool. 

Instead, Nicolò rotated to his right, in the direction his chain was pulling him, and turned his head to examine the faded lash marks covering his back. They were faint and, in some places, already barely distinguishable from the rest of his skin. He struggled to remember how many days past he’d received his lashing. How long had he been at the manor? Was it a fortnight? Shorter? Longer? It felt as if it could have been months.

He turned back around to fix his eyes on the brand, and stared at it for some time. The topmost ray was high enough, right at the base of his throat, that it would peek out of any ordinary tunic unless Nicolò donned extra layers.

Everyone would be able to see it. 

Everyone at the manor--everyone Nicolò could ever hope to interact with for the rest of his life--would know exactly what it signified, its meaning unmistakable. Besides marking the hides of all Lord Yusuf’s livestock, the six-rayed sun also featured right at the center of the al-Kaysani sigil, which was carved into crenellations all over the manor. The sigil adorned the rings on Yusuf’s fingers and sealed every letter he wrote.

And now a piece of it, the centerpiece of it, was burned directly into Nicolò’s flesh.

He shivered again and looked up at his face. His pupils were dilated, now, and a faint flush had risen to his cheeks.

Nicolò cast his eyes down and turned toward the door. He paused at the foot of his bed to pile some of the chain on top of his bed covers in an attempt to relieve the heavy weight that was pulling at his neck. His head had begun to ache with it. 

Then he went to his door and cracked it open, hiding his nude body behind it. Zaahir and Paolo were beyond, murmuring quietly to each other, and Paolo immediately fell silent as his eyes snapped to Nicolò’s. “At your service, Mister Nicolò.”

Nicolò blinked. He couldn’t remember if Paolo had ever addressed him by name before. “Could somebody please replenish the washing things at my vanity? Washcloths, and soap, and clean water?”

“Certainly, Mister Nicolò. That will be just a moment.” Nicolò nodded awkwardly and shut the door, then sat on the bed and drew a blanket over his bare lap.

A knock sounded at the door shortly thereafter, but nobody stepped in, as Nicolò was expecting. He waited in confusion until another knock followed the first one. “Come in!” he said, somewhat bemused.

Zaahir entered his room with a tray weighed down with a large water jug, several pale cakes of soap, and a tall stack of washcloths. He set them on the vanity and then turned to bow in Nicolò’s direction.

“Will that be all, Mister Nicolò?”

Nicolò thought of asking for clothes, but he suspected the bareness of his wardrobe was on Lord Yusuf’s say-so, and did not want to put Zaahir in the position of having to choose between waiting on Nicolò or obeying his Lord. “Yes, thank you,” he said, offering a small, false smile. 

The man bowed again and left.

Nicolò sat on his stool and washed his armpits with a soaped-up washcloth until the ripe smell was gone, then cleaned the dried semen from his stomach, groin, and thighs. Next, he bent forward to examine his feet. The tops were clean enough and unmarred, but when he crossed his leg to inspect his right sole, it was brown with smudged-in dirt and dried blood, and abraded with popped blisters. He moved the wash basin down to the floor and cleaned both feet, then emptied the dirty water into his chamberpot, poured fresh water in, and cleaned them once more. 

After Nicolò had dried his feet off, he sat on the bed and dabbed ointment onto the cuts and blisters.

He had nothing more to do to distract himself from his headache but sit and wait for Yusuf to return.

Some time later, Paolo carried in his midday meal (Nicolò faster to utter “Come in!” this time), which was wholesome and plain fare compared to what he’d eaten that morning with Yusuf in his bed. Nicolò ate it all. Paolo carried away his dishes and emptied his chamberpot.

Nicolò sighed and waited.

He had expected his headache to fade away, now that he was fed and no longer standing with nearly the full weight of the chain pulling at his neck, but his head did not oblige him. It seemed only to worsen over the day, changing from a steady ache to an insistent throbbing that he could feel in his ears. Nicolò lay down and tried to hide his pain in sleep.

When he awoke, he was hot and sweaty, and kicked off all his covers. His head did not feel better. He wanted more water to drink, but did not feel energetic enough to get out of bed and open the door, nor rude enough to call through it.

Thankfully, the light coming through his window was dimming rapidly, and he thought Yusuf might rejoin him soon. 

Sure enough, less than half an hour later, the door opened up, and Yusuf stepped through, looking resplendent in rich red robes threaded with gold. The golden circlet of vines was resting on his curls, and a happy smile graced his face, which made Nicolò perk up despite his physical ailments. He dragged himself up to a sitting position and smiled back at Yusuf.

Yusuf’s smile grew into a grin and his eyes twinkled back at Nicolò for a moment before he schooled his expression. “You may want to cover up, dearest. Before we eat dinner, there is someone with something to say to you.” Nicolò pulled the blankets back over his lower body, and Yusuf opened the door wider.

Suhana walked in, head lowered, and curtsied at the foot of the bed.

“I beg your pardon, Mister Nicolò. I should not have hit you. I forgot my station and brought shame on my family. Please forgive me.” Her eyes stayed lowered, fixed on the pattern at the center of the top coverlet.

Nicolò cleared his throat, intensely uncomfortable. “Um. That’s okay, Suhana.” She waited, unmoving, and Nicolò glanced at Yusuf, who was watching him with unguarded fascination. He waited another beat, but the room stayed uncomfortably still and silent. “I forgive you.” 

“Thank you, Mister Nicolò. You are too kind.” She curtsied again.

“You may leave us,” Lord Yusuf said, neutrally, and Suhana fled. Two serving men came in, then, and set trays of food and drink on the sitting area table. They lit the lanterns, and after Lord Yusuf dismissed them as well, the two of them were blessedly alone.

“Did you mean what you said, pet?” Lord Yusuf asked, curiously. 

Nicolò frowned in confusion. “To Suhana?”

“Yes.”

“I did,” Nicolò said, hesitantly. 

“Is that okay?” he asked, when Yusuf did not respond. “Did you want me to say something else?”

“No, no,” Yusuf said, pleasantly, with a little shake of his head and a quick smile. “You’re just...a very unusual person, Nicolò.” He winked at Nicolò and turned toward the sitting area before Nicolò could react. “Would you like wine with dinner, my love?”

“No, thank you,” Nicolò answered. “I’m very thirsty, though. May I have some water?”

“Of course, dear heart.” Yusuf bent over and rearranged the food and drinks on the trays to his liking, then brought one of them over with two plates, a goblet of deep red wine, and a drinking vessel filled to the brim with clear water. Nicolò drank the entire glass dry and then returned it to the tray. Yusuf smiled at him indulgently and fetched the pitcher from the sitting area, refilling his glass and setting the pitcher on the bedside table before sitting on the bed against the headboard next to Nicolò.

Nicolò picked at his food as Yusuf ate, but none of it appealed to him, not even the plain bread. Yusuf wiped his fingers off on his napkin and eyed Nicolò. “Not hungry, my heart?”

Nicolò shook his head and winced. “No, Sire. My head hurts.” 

Yusuf frowned. “You look flushed, habibi.” He turned and put his hand to Nicolò’s forehead. His palm felt wonderfully cool for the briefest of moments before Yusuf hissed and pulled away. Nicolò’s eyes fluttered open to look at him in concern.

Yusuf was already sliding out of bed and crossing the room to fling the door open. “Fetch Umayma,” he snapped into the hallway, and shut the door again. He went to the vanity and washed his hands with soap, then sat back down on the bed, his brow furrowed with worry.

“Who’s Umayma?” Nicolò asked. 

“She knows the most medicine of all my staff, though her specialty is midwifery. I need to see your chest, darling.” He reached forward and took Nicolò’s glass of water where he’d been cradling it, and Nicolò rested his now-empty hands at his side. Yusuf set it on the bedside table and scooted closer, peering at the brand. 

“I’m going to touch near the brand, baby. I’ll be gentle.” Nicolò nodded, his head protesting the movement. 

Ice-cold fingertips ghosted over the red skin at the furthest left edge of the brand, and Nicolò gasped at the sensation. Yusuf withdrew his hand and uttered a stream of Arabic, then, no word of which Nicolò could understand, but which he felt certain was entirely profanity. Nicolò began to tremble.

He handed the water back to Nicolò. “Drink this and then I’ll get you more.” He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “You’re shaking. What is wrong? Did I hurt you?”

Nicolò bit his lip and stared down at the vessel of water clutched in his hands. “No, Sire,” he whispered. “I’m...I’m…”

“Nicolò, please,” Lord Yusuf said, gently. “Would you look at me?”

Nicolò tore his eyes away from his water and forced himself to look at Yusuf. He didn’t look angry; far from it.

“Are you scared?” Lord Yusuf asked him, still in that soft, quiet tone.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Of being sick?” Yusuf prodded.

“N-no, Your Grace. I mean, maybe a little, but…” Nicolò trailed off, his voice wobbling.

“Of me?”

Tears welled up in Nicolò’s eyes and he nodded jerkily, abbreviating the motion when the pain pulsing in his ears and behind his eyes worsened.

“Oh, darling,” Yusuf said, sorrowfully. “I’m not mad at you. I’m scared for you. I don’t want you to get sick. I’m worried about the brand.” Nicolò swallowed back his tears and sighed, shakily.

A knock sounded at the door. “Enter,” said Lord Yusuf, and a plump, wrinkled woman Nicolò did not recognize swept in, trailed by Gianna and a serving girl who swiftly set to changing out the water in the washbasin atop the vanity and collecting the pile of used washcloths. 

Yusuf stood to make room, and the older woman took his place on the bed after washing her hands at the vanity. “I’m Umayma,” she said to Nicolò. Nicolò glanced at Yusuf standing behind her. 

“This is Nicolò,” Yusuf said, on his behalf, to Nicolò’s relief. “He has a headache and a fever, and his injury is warm to the touch.” 

Umama frowned deeply. “I’m going to lift my hand up, but I won’t touch, you understand?” her voice was more heavily accented than anybody else that Nicolò had met at the manor, and Nicolò had to pause just a second to parse her words. 

“Yes.”

Umayma lifted her hand and hovered its palm just above Nicolò’s brand. True to her word, she did not make contact with it. 

“When did this happen?” she asked.

“Yesterday. Early afternoon,” Yusuf answered.

“Did you clean the skin before?”

Yusuf’s face over Umayma’s shoulder faded rapidly from an expression of worry into total blankness. There was silence in the room for a long moment, and then Yusuf turned to face the two women hovering by the door. “Wait outside, please.”

They left and shut the door behind them.

Umayma sat back with a groan and moved her legs to cross in front of her. Yusuf folded his arms over his chest and hitched his hip up on the bedside table, and then the two of them regarded each other, silently. Yusuf’s face was still and frozen, devoid of emotion, and Nicolò could not help but shudder and look away, deeply unsettled.

“Did you clean the skin before?” Umayma repeated.

“No,” Yusuf answered, voice monotone. “Not really. Someone scrubbed him down in a horse trough.”

“ _Someone_ did, eh? Of their own volition? And I suppose you had nothing to do with this?”

Nicolò’s fingers spasmed around the glass and he stared, mouth slightly agape, at the woman’s calm expression and her quirked eyebrow. Just as he’d never seen Yusuf’s face so still, he’d never heard someone speak in such a tone to the Lord.

Yusuf didn’t respond. Umayma sighed. 

“Did you clean the skin after?”

“No.”

“I see,” she said, voice heavy with disapproval. “What have you done to treat it?”

“I’ve applied the ointment, once last night and once this morning. I was about to apply more when I noticed his symptoms.”

“And you clean your hands before?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Yusuf answered, his voice dangerously icy.

Umayma turned her head to look at Nicolò, her face softening. “When did your head start hurting, Nicolò?”

“Before noon,” he answered, carefully focusing on her to avoid glancing at Yusuf’s face.

“And your fever?”

Nicolò licked his lips. They still felt dry despite all the water he’d consumed. “I don’t know. I woke up hot perhaps an hour ago.”

She patted the mound of his left knee beneath the blanket. “That is good.”

She turned back to Yusuf, then. “It may work itself out, but if I were you, I would get a real physician. The...what did you call it? The _injury_ is infected. It will likely worsen before it gets better. Hand me that ointment.” She unscrewed the jar and scooped some out with her fingers, then reached for Nicolò.

He flinched away.

“I will be careful,” she assured him, but Nicolò just curled in on himself. 

“Could...could Lord Yusuf do it?”

An extremely complicated series of expressions passed over the woman’s face, ending in a dramatically arched eyebrow. She pulled back, though, and regarded Yusuf with pursed lips. “Wash your hands.”

“I just washed them,” he shot back, tartly.

“Wash them again.”

Nicolò watched Yusuf’s back in shock as he walked to the vanity and cleaned his hands over the washbasin. While he was drying them, still facing away, he said something in Arabic, his tone of voice stern. 

Umayma twisted her body sideways to respond to him, also in Arabic, in the tone of a question. Nicolò imagined that he could hear a bit of sarcasm beneath. Yusuf answered, his voice sharp and angry, and he wadded up the small towel in his hands and threw it against the wall. He stood in place, then, chest heaving, his stance wide and weight shifting, his hands fisted on his hips and head tipped down towards the floor. 

Umayma turned back to face Nicolò with a roll of her eyes and shook her head, the wrinkles pinching at her mouth like little chasms. Nobody said anything until Yusuf lifted his head. He muttered something, again in Arabic. Then he turned back to face the bed. His expression once more looked worried.

“Nicolò, my dearest, I’m going to put the ointment on, and then I must go. Your fever may worsen, and I don’t want to wait for that to happen, so I’m fetching the nearest decent physician in case it does, you understand?” He sat at the head of the bed, ignoring Umayma, and began dabbing ointment slowly and carefully onto Nicolò’s brand. “I expect it will take me at least a day to return, and probably longer. But that way we’ll be prepared if things worsen, yes?”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Nicolò said, softly.

Yusuf frowned unhappily. “I know, hayati, but I need to fetch this man myself. I’m sorry. I’ll come back as soon as I can.” He wiped his fingers off on the edge of the bed sheet and leaned in to drop the softest of kisses onto Nicolò’s lips.

“Who will care for me, while you are gone?”

Yusuf’s expression darkened fractionally. “Umayma will. She is the best qualified.”

Nicolò’s heart sunk. He’d known Umayma all of five minutes, but he did not like her. She’d made Lord Yusuf’s captivating eyes go cold and dead. And, almost as bad as that, she’d made Yusuf speak in a language that Nicolò could not understand. If he could not understand Yusuf, then he could not tell what he wanted or what he was thinking, which felt incredibly dangerous.

He wanted her out of his room.

“May I leave? Leave my room? Today was very dull, Sire.”

“If you’re well enough to walk, Nico. Just bring your guards with you. But I want you to rest as much as possible.”

Nicolò swallowed. “And...and clothes, Your Grace? May I have some?” Nicolò thought he heard a huffed exhalation behind Yusuf, but he ignored it.

“Yes, yes, Nicolò, of course.” Yusuf leaned in and brushed another dry, chaste kiss against Nicolò’s mouth. When he pulled back and stood up, his face looked the same as it did when he spoke to any of his servants, calm and regal. “What can you do for him?”

“I would like to finish my examination, if you do not mind.”

 _Go ahead,_ indicated Lord Yusuf with a hand gesture.

Umayma pressed the back of her soft and wrinkled hand to Nicolò’s forehead, and this time he held himself still and did not pull away. She nodded to herself. “May I touch your neck?” 

Nicolò considered the question. He just wanted this over with. Yusuf clearly did not want to leave him before the woman had finished her investigation, and the sooner she finished, the sooner he could leave, and the sooner he could return. “Yes.”

She tilted his jaw up with two fingers and then pressed them to the underside, where his pulse fluttered. She hummed and frowned but did not comment. 

“Do you have any other injuries?” she asked, when she pulled her hand away. Nicolò’s gaze darted to Yusuf behind her, who nodded at him, his eyes sad. 

“My back and my feet. My back is nearly fully healed. My feet, I cleaned this morning.”

The old woman sucked on her teeth. “I would like to see both, please.” With an effort, Nicolò gathered up the blanket in his lap and pulled until his feet were poking out from beneath. Umayma slid off the bed and rounded it to bend over his feet with a soft groan. “We will clean these again and put bandages on. You should not walk about barefoot.”

Nicolò glanced at Yusuf again, who nodded. “I understand,” he acknowledged.

Then, she came around the other side, between the bed and the wardrobe. Nicolò leaned forward to give her access to his back. “These are well cared-for,” she admitted.

“May I lie down now?” he asked, sitting up straight.

“One more cup of water, habibi,” Yusuf cajoled, handing him the once-more full drinking vessel, and Nicolò sipped it as quickly as he could bear. After he handed it back to Lord Yusuf, he closed his eyes and finally laid down again, which was a relief. He closed his eyes and felt Yusuf sit on the bed next to him, and then a hand was stroking his hair.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Yusuf murmured.

“When you get back…” Nicolò began, eyes still closed, then cut himself off, embarrassed.

“Go on, darling.”

“When you get back...um. Could you...could you brush my hair?”

“Oh, yes, Nicolò,” Yusuf responded, warmly. “Of course, hayati. I would love that.” He pushed a kiss against Nicolò’s forehead and stroked his hair a moment longer before standing.

The indecipherable tones of Arabic in two very different voices came from the vicinity of his sitting area. Nicolò forced himself to stay awake and listen, straining to hear Yusuf's tone of voice, even though he was speaking very quietly.

They spoke for long minutes, and the only word Nicolò could pick out was his own name. Then he heard the door open and shut, and a minute later, somebody--probably Umayma--was cleaning and bandaging his feet. Nicolò kept his eyes shut and pretended to sleep through it.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments feed the beast! =D


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